


And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend

by scrub456



Series: Singular [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, 25 Days of Christmas, 25 Days of Fic, 30 Days of Writing, Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Meet Pre-Canon, Angst, Auld Lang Syne, Book: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Canon Divergence - A Scandal in Belgravia, Childhood, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Special, Drug Addict Sherlock, F/M, Fairy Lights, Fluff, Gen, Gray's Anatomy, Harm to Children, Humor, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, John Watson's father is a horrible human being, John's RAMC mug, Lisping Sherlock, Military John, Mrs Hudson did naughty things, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Tears, Teenagers, University, baby sherlock, kind of, not canon typical Mary, yippee ki yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-05-04 09:52:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 90,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5329781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they met, Sherlock and John had each already celebrated, ignored, and vilified, a lifetime of Christmases. This is the story of those Christmases, the ones before Sherlock and John were Sherlock and John... And there will be a few Baker Street celebrations as well, for good measure. Plenty of fluff, with the occasional side of angst (which wouldn't be seasoned properly without the tiniest bit of my specialty: whump).</p><p>Each chapter will be a different story. POV will change as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Day, 1980: Mycroft & Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try a thing, and it's completely new for me... I'm going to write as many of these as I can between now and Christmas. My fluffy (and sometimes angsty) gift to you, my lovely friends and readers. I hope you enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby Sherlock's first Christmas. Baby _William_ Sherlock Scott Holmes, that is. 
> 
> Mycroft-centric.
> 
> Possibly the cutesiest piece of cute I've ever written.

"I don't know why they all think you're so special anyway. They don't have to live with you. You're positively dull." Seven year-old Mycroft Holmes huffed as he paced. 

It wasn't even truly pacing. He had picked out a pattern in the nursery rug that wove back and forth in an uninterrupted line, and he walked along it carefully as if balancing on a tight rope, his arms out slightly to his sides. He called it pacing because that's what the grown ups did. When father would fret, about _what_ Mycroft never really knew, he would march up and down the length of the sitting room. He thought it made his father look strong and serious, like a soldier. Mummy would tell him to stop pacing, have a drink, and try not to think so much.

Mycroft couldn't imagine anything worse than not thinking, and if father thought _so much_ while he paced, then he reasoned pacing would help him think _so much_ as well. And young Mycroft Holmes had weighty matters to consider.

"My-my-my-my!"

With a sigh Mycroft turned to face the cooing, gurgling voice in the corner of the room. "I keep telling you, my name is My _croft_ , not _My._ Mycroft." He stomped to the cot and peered at the curious being imprisoned within. A chubby, slobbering, surprisingly moody, always attention grabbing, bundle of dark unruly curls and wide keen eyes stared back at him. And screeched.

"My!" The baby babbled and held out the drool soaked teddy bear he'd been chewing on.

"Ugh, William. I don't want that soggy old thing. Don't be _peprostrerous_." Mycroft smirked at his brother. He'd been practicing that word for days, ever since he'd heard one of father's dinner guests use it. He liked big, grown up words. Like peprost... pepostrer... pre-pos-ter-ous. Yes. That. So he'd looked it up in the big, old dictionary father kept in his study.

He'd also been practicing his smirk. Mycroft didn't know the facial expression had a name, but he had seen one of the older boys in his history class (all the boys in his class were older, because he had advanced two years above the other children his own age) make _the face_ when he had coolly corrected a fact the teacher had misquoted. The other students had giggled and thought him to be very clever.

Mycroft was clever. He _knew_ he was clever. So, he practiced his smirk. It looked more like a grimace to be honest, but at only seven years old, it was a rather respectable attempt.

"You see, your problem is that you can't _do_ anything. _I_ can play four Christmas songs on the piano. _Four_ , William. You cannot do that." Mycroft kept track of his list of accomplishments by counting them out on his fingers. "I can feed myself. I can even cut my own food now. You can't do that. The knife is too tricky. And you just get everything all messy and in your hair." He frowned with disdain, understanding the concept long before knowing the actual word, and smoothed the imaginary wrinkles in his vest, as he'd watched the grown ups do. He resumed his list making. "You aren't able to dress yourself. Look at that gown mummy has you in. I _tried_ to tell her boys don't wear dresses, but she said it's _tradition_ and that even I wore it. I don't believe her."

Straightening his bow tie, the red one to match father's, Mycroft once again smoothed his pinstripe vest. He inspected his cuffs, and frowned at the pink smudge near his wrist. He thought he ought to feel bad for having that peppermint stick, but those were his most favorite, and mummy had said he was allowed one before dinner. There was nothing to be done about it now. Glancing down past his neatly pleated trousers, Mycroft smiled at the new wellies grandmother had given him. They were splendid (another favorite grown up word), and he had insisted on wearing them as soon as they were out of the box. They were all black, with real metal buckles on the side (they didn't actually unfasten, but they _looked_ important).

William cooed and grinned at his big brother. He had pulled himself to standing in the cot, and seemed to be looking at the boots too. Mycroft shook his head in pity. "Is there anything you can actually do, William?" The baby reached both hands toward Mycroft, tottered in his spot for a moment, and plopped down on his bum. He stared, wide eyed and startled, then laughed and blew a slobbery raspberry. Mycroft giggled. " _William_."

"Mycroft, dear, what are you doing in here? You haven't seen your cousins for months. Come out and play with them. We'll be pulling crackers soon." Mummy hugged Mycroft to her side and ruffled his hair.

" _Mummy!_ " Mycroft carefully smoothed his hair and sighed. "William was bored. I was keeping him company."

"He's supposed to be napping." Mummy smiled and Mycroft could tell she knew the real reason he was hiding in the nursery.

"It's difficult being the youngest, isn't it love?" Mummy picked William up from the cot, and he immediately snuggled against her.

"I'm not!" Mycroft huffed.

"William hardly counts, now does he?" She settled into the rocking chair and pulled Mycroft over as well. He leaned against her knees and blinked back the traitorous tears.

It was true. The cousin nearest Mycroft's age was Nicholas. He was two years older than Mycroft, but they were in the same year at school, and he was humiliated that his younger cousin had better scores than he did in every subject. Nicholas had broken Mycroft's new model train, _on purpose_ , and then convinced the other boy cousins to exclude "baby" Mycroft from their games.

The eldest of the cousins, thirteen year-old Leah, had, at one time, been Mycroft's favorite of all the cousins. She was funny, clever, had learned things in school he hadn't yet, and most of all, she doted on him. He had awaited her arrival to the Christmas festivities with anticipation. Upon her arrival, she had hugged him tightly, scooped up William in her arms, and spent the remainder of the day cuddling the baby and regaling the younger girls with stories of boys and make-up, and hair styles and rock stars.

All of the adults just shooed him away when he tried to listen in on their conversations.

"It's not fair," Mycroft sniffled. "Leah only loves William now, and Nicholas and the others hate me because I'm cleverer than them. I wish they would all just leave. I _hate_ Christmas." He stomped one booted foot to make his point.

"Mycroft!" Mummy scolded gently. "I know that's not true."

"It is. I hate it," he pouted with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Do you hate the lovely gifts you've received? Or grandmother staying here with us?"

"Nooo..." 

"What about baking cookies for the neighbors? And the _four_ new songs you can play? The decorations, and all the food?"

"No, I love those things."

"All of those things are part of Christmas. And so is family. I know they can be difficult, but so can you love." Mummy grinned at him, and he knew she was teasing. He buried his face in her lap to cover the embarrassed blush. "Why don't I put William back to bed, and then you can help me with the Christmas pudding?"

"You want _me_ to help you?" Mycroft peeked through his fingers, eyes wide with surprise.

Mummy laughed. "Of course. I must have my most trusted helper in the kitchen. And I think I heard Leah looking for you right before I came in here to find you. Maybe the two of you can be in charge of the Christmas crackers together?"

"Really?" Mycroft flashed her a wide grin, revealing four missing teeth. "But, I thought Leah only liked William now."

"Oh, sweetheart, she doesn't love him more than you. He's just so new, she wanted to get to know him. She loves you because of who you are, just like she will love William for who he grows up to be as well." Mycroft nodded as Mummy kissed his forehead and stood to place William in his bed. "Come along, darling." Mummy smiled at him and motioned to the door.

Mycroft glanced at the cot. "I need to tell William something first, mummy."

Mummy nodded and smiled once more. "Come to the kitchen when you're done." She pulled the door closed quietly behind her.

Gently Mycroft brushed his fingers through William's feather soft hair as the baby snuffled peacefully in sleep. "I'm going to teach you so many things, William. And when you get big enough, we will be best friends. We will be cleverer than everyone else, and they will _all_ want to play with us because we will have the biggest, funnest adventures."

William sighed, content.

Mycroft kissed his finger tips, reached into the cot on his tiptoes, and brushed his fingers softly along William's brow. "Happy Christmas, little brother."


	2. Early Christmas Morning, 1980: Harry & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight year-old Harry tries to salvage Christmas for her four year-old little brother.
> 
> Harry-centric.

Harriet Watson hated Jonathan Watson. 

Hated. Him.

In the infinite wisdom of an eight year-old, she didn't think that it was proper to hate someone. And to be fair, she couldn't think of a single other person she hated. She hated _things,_ and felt that hating a thing was okay, because a thing wasn't a person. Spiders were just asking to be hated. As were lima beans and the color brown. But people weren't meant to be hated. 

At least that's what mum always said. And gran too.

Gran said God hated hate. Harry didn't understand exactly how that worked, but she didn't think it would be very good to make God hate her.

But it was hard not to hate the man she called father when her sweet, gentle, beautiful baby brother was huddled under her quilt, clinging to her nightshirt, sobbing. "It'll be okay, Ish. I promise. You'll see. Please don't cry. Please, Ish?"

"I'm bad..." The four year old wept as he buried his face in his sister's chest.

"No, Ish. You aren't. You are so, so good." Harry's tummy ached as she hugged her little brother and pulled him closer.

"Daddy..." The boy heaved a sob. "Daddy said I am."

"He's wrong, Ish. You are such a good boy." Copying what she'd seen mum do, Harry played with the scruffy hairs on the back of her brother's head. It always seemed to calm him down. He drew in a shuddering breath.

" _He_ didn't come." The tears came even harder. "I'm too bad." 

The child, in his excitement, heard his father stumble into the flat in the still dark hours of the morning, and had thought perhaps he would catch a glimpse of Father Christmas. When he discovered the stockings were still empty, Jonathan had laughed and declared that John had been a bad boy for crying so much, and didn't deserve any gifts.

Harry had wanted to cry too when John had woken her, his lips were trembling and tears threatened to spill from his innocent blue eyes. It wasn't fair. Of course she didn't believe in Father Christmas any longer. She _was_ eight after all. Eight and a half, actually. But the weeping boy in her arms did, and Jonathan Watson had ruined it.

Jonathan Watson had a way of ruining everything.

He wasn't Harry's real father. Her real father had died. She couldn't remember what had happened, but she remembered a big black car, a black party dress that wasn't for a party, living at gran's house, and mum crying and crying.

Then one day, mum said Harry was to have a new father, and a new home. And there was going to be a baby brother or sister. Harry had hoped for a sister.

Jonathan Watson helped mum stop crying. Harry was glad about that. She was sad that her name wasn't going to be Harriet Byrne anymore, but mum wanted to change it, so Jonathan agreed. That made mum very happy, so Harry was happy too. 

And then the baby came, and _he_ was _not_ a sister, which was disappointing. But he was, Harry thought, the most beautiful baby she had ever seen, and had fallen instantly in love. Mum thought it would be nice to name the baby after his father. Jonathan said he didn't care for that idea at all. They settled on John (a compromise, mum said) Hamish (after mum's grandad, gran's husband).

Jonathan called his son "boy" (eight year-old Harry guessed that should have been a sign there was a problem, but she had only been four when her brother was born and hadn't known any better). Mum called the baby Johnny. Gran called him Hamish. When Harry was six, she heard Jonathan complain about Gran calling _his_ boy after that awful middle name. She decided from that moment she would call her brother Hamish as well. Ish for short. That really made Jonathan angry.

There wasn't much that didn't make Jonathan angry.

Especially when he was drunk. Which was most of the time, after the factory he worked at closed down. So mum worked. Mum worked all the time; Jonathan didn't. Harry looked after John if she wasn't at school.

Then Jonathan started making mum cry. When mum cried, John would cry. A crying baby made Jonathan even angrier, and he would shout, and Harry wanted to shout back at him, to say the horrible, mean, grown up words back to him. But he had smacked her _hard_ the only time she ever tried that. So she would pick John up, and together they would hide under the quilt on her bed.

Maybe Harry did feel guilty for hating Jonathan. But she was afraid of him, and she didn't think anyone who was a father should be so frightening, though he didn't seem to mind. He hurt mum, and he made John cry. He made John cry and cry.

Jonathan made John cry _on_ Christmas.

Harry decided. She listened through thin walls to Jonathan hurl angry words at mum as he stormed from the flat in a drunken rage. She _felt_ the loneliness when she heard mum leave for work (even on Christmas) without first checking on them. And her heart ached, it had to be her heart, because this was Ish, and it hurt because he had tired himself out with crying, and was sleeping, hot and heavy, on her chest. He had cried himself to sleep on Christmas morning, and it wasn't right. So really, the decision was made for her.

Harriet Watson hated Jonathan Watson.

As gently as possible, Harry rolled John off of her, and pried his fingers from the tight grip he had on her nightgown. She found the battered shoe box she had hidden under her bed, and tiptoed out to the main part of the flat. 

The Watson home was small, the main room was a combined sitting room and kitchen. There were two tiny bedrooms, so Harry and John shared one. There wasn't even a bathtub in the bathroom, only a shower stall, a toilet and a decrepit leaking sink.

There hadn't been room for a Christmas tree, even if there had been the money to buy one. The butcher down the street had given mum a large piece of the butcher paper from the roll in his shop, and the three of them, mum, Harry and John, had colored their own Christmas tree. Mum cut it out and had pinned it to the wall. She surprised them by adding a strand of fairy lights she had found. Only half of them still worked, but they had all agreed it was the most beautiful Christmas tree that had ever been. Jonathan had mocked it, but at least he hadn't torn it down.

Mum had hung two of her warm, wool socks, the ones she wore to work, next to the paper tree. One for Harry and one for John. She had confided to Harry that there wasn't any money for Christmas gifts, but that she had managed to scrape together a few things for the stockings. Everything had been hidden in Harry's shoe box, and she was to fill the stockings before John woke on Christmas morning. They hadn't counted on Jonathan even coming home.

Harry sighed in frustration as she opened up her box. Mum had managed two small tangerines and a small pile of candy. She dropped one tangerine into each sock, and considered the candy. Keeping only one peppermint stick and one piece of chocolate for herself, Harry placed the rest in John's sock. There was a small blue rubber ball for John, and a braided purple bracelet for Harry -- she didn't think John would care to have that. 

The stockings looked so empty. Harry couldn't keep the tears from falling this time. She wasn't sad for herself, because of the lack. No, she was sad because mum had tried so hard. And she was sad because Ish really was such a very good and kind boy. 

Another decision was made that dark Christmas morning.

Digging through the shoe box, Harry pulled out a brand new box of 16 crayons. Her teacher had given a box to every student for Christmas. Harry loved to draw, and was planning on saving these for as long as she could. But she wanted Ish to be happy more than anything. She slid them carefully into the sock. On top of that she gingerly placed the tiny battered and worn toy military helicopter. It had been her father's. Her _real_ father. It was his favorite when he was a boy, and he had saved it to give to his son one day. When he died, Harry's mum had given it to her. She had never played with it, though she treasured it dearly. Ish would be careful with it, she knew he would, especially if she asked him to. Maybe one day when he was older she could explain to him why it was important.

Satisfied that her brother would have a happy Christmas, Harry hid her box back in its spot under her bed. She knew the last of the bread and milk had been used for dinner last night, but she thought she ought to find something for breakfast. Her brother was always starving when he woke up. 

A knock at the door startled her.

"It's Mrs. McMillan from across the hall, dear ones. I heard your mum leave for work, and..."

Harry swung the door open with a smile. "Oh! Happy Christmas, Mrs. McMillan!"

"Happy Christmas, Harry dear." The silver haired old lady glanced around the flat. "Why, where's that darling brother of yours?"

"He... he was too excited to sleep last night. I'm letting him sleep a bit longer now," Harry fibbed. Mrs. McMillan nodded with a smile, but Harry saw that her eyes looked sad.

"Well, Mr. McMillan and I made too much breakfast for ourselves, and I thought I would bring some over so you wouldn't have to make your own. Is that okay, dear?"

"Oh, yes ma'am. Thank you!" Harry smiled brightly and hugged the dear woman.

"Think nothing of it, sweetness." Mrs. McMillan chuckled. She handed Harry two wrapped plates. "Now those plates are special Christmas plates, just for you and John. You keep those, as a gift from us."

Harry gaped. "Are you... are you sure it's okay?"

"Absolutely, love. And if you or John need anything while your mum is out today, you know where to find us." Mrs. McMillan hugged Harry. "Happy Christmas, dear one."

"Thank you. Oh, thank you so much. Please tell Mr. McMillan I said Happy Christmas too." Harry blinked back tears as she closed the door. 

Unwrapping the plates, Harry found each one held a sticky roll, scrambled eggs, and sausages. The ache had long gone from her tummy, and now it rumbled with hunger when she smelled the food. 

For the first time in a heartrendingly long time, young Harry felt a twinge of excitement.

"Ish! Ish, wake up! Get up!" Harry cried as she burst into their room. She pounced on the quilt wrapped bundle on her bed. "Ish, get up right now!"

"Harry?" John rubbed his tear crusted eyes and yawned.

"He came, Ish!" Harry grinned down at her brother.

Blinking rapidly, John considered what Harry was telling him. "Daddy said..."

"He was wrong. He's _always_ wrong! Father Christmas came! Sometimes..." Harry looked deeply into the wide, vulnerable eyes of her little brother. He would figure out soon enough that Father Christmas wasn't real, but until then, Harry wanted to make sure her brother didn't have reason to cry any more. She would have to make something up. "I... I think I heard one time that he saves the very best kids for last, to make sure that... uhm... To be sure he has enough gifts for all the other boys and girls. He knows only the very best kids understand how important it is to make sure everyone else has a gift. I... I think you are the best boy in the whole world, Ish."

John stared up at Harry, completely absorbed in her story, the most serious look she had ever seen on his little face. "I'm good?"

"Yes, Ish. The very best little boy. The best brother in the whole world."

An excited smile spread across John's face, and he jumped up to hug Harry tight. When he let go, it was only long enough to place a hand on either side of her face. Standing on the bed in front of her, John looked deep into Harry's eyes. "You too, Harry. You're good too, huh?"

"No..." Harry thought about hating Jonathan, and the fibs she'd told. "No, Ish, I'm not."

John's little brow furrowed, and he looked at her as sternly as was possible for an adorable cherub. "Yes. You are good. You and me." He nodded and smiled. The matter was settled, and he believed it with his whole heart. He kissed her on the nose.

"Oh, that's it, you're going to pay for that!" Harry laughed. She lunged to tickle him, and John jumped, screaming with laughter, from the bed. He dashed out to the main room. Harry rubbed the end of her nose, and whispered with a smile. "Happy Christmas, Ish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang it John. Why does angst follow you, no matter how hard I try to give you fluff?


	3. Christmas Eve, 1984: Mycroft & Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blanket forts, fairy lights, and discussions of Father Christmas's questionable character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Sherlock has a lisp. Because, [Manon_de_Sercoeur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Manon_de_Sercoeur/pseuds/Manon_de_Sercoeur) _had_ to use "prepothterouth" in the comments of chapter one, and because [notjustmom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom) _might_ be obsessed with the Cumberlisp.
> 
> Writing a lisp is hard. And spellcheck hates me.

“William.” Eleven year-old Mycroft Holmes glanced around the disorder that was his little brother’s bedroom. He sighed his most practiced, adult sounding sigh. “ _William._ I know you’re in this unholy mess somewhere.” He waved his hand dismissively, though he was secretly _very_ pleased with himself. _Unholy mess._ It felt like swearing, mummy even scolded him for saying it, though he suspected it wasn't really a very naughty phrase at all. Not compared to the types of words the boys at school used when the teachers weren't listening.

A precarious (a lovely word, learned from a rather dull librarian) stack of cardboard boxes shifted. “William, mummy says you’ve _got_ to go to bed.” He cleared his throat. The exact message from mummy had included _or Father Christmas won’t come._

As a four year-old, William could believe the made up fairy stories if he wanted to, but Mycroft would not encourage such childish fantasies.

“I’m not thleepy, My,” a heap of pillows responded.

“It’s very late, William.” Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back and rocked onto the balls of his feet in a show of impatience.

“You don’t have to go to thleep yet.” William sat up from the middle of the pile. 

“A privilege of being the first born.” Lifting his chin in condescension (ah, yes, a splendid concept indeed), Mycroft took a step toward his brother. His patent leather clad foot landed squarely on a toy that squeaked loudly. He froze and looked at William. 

The two stared at each other for a short moment, and then with a squeal William laughed. “My-yyy!” 

Face tinged with embarrassment, Mycroft straightened his shoulders and pretended to brush lint from his sleeve. “Bed, William.”

Still giggling, William collapsed into the pillows. “My, what’th priv’lige?”

“What?” Mycroft sighed.

“You thaid ‘priv’lige.’ What ith that?” Wide blue-green eyes peered up inquisitively at the older boy.

“Ah, well, it means, uhm…” Glancing around the wreck of a room, Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest. “It means I’m older, and I get to do more things. Like stay up later than you. And that means _you_ have to go to bed. Now.”

“No.” Petulant four year-old lips pursed into a pout. “I wanna build fort.”

“A… fort?” Mycroft frowned. “Why?”

“Becauthe! It’th fun! And we can hide. And be pirateth. And and and… have the biggetht and funnetht a’venture! ‘Member? You alwayth tell me. Pleathe, My?” William crawled out from the pillows and wrapped his arms around his brother’s knees. He batted thick, curly lashes over bright, pleading eyes. “Pleathe?” 

Mycroft scoffed. “Don’t be preposterous, William. You’re going to bed, and I’m going back downstairs. With the _adults._ ”

“Peprothtrerouth, My?” The four year-old leaned back so he could look up at his brother.

“Hmph.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. He didn’t have time for this. Father and mummy were having all sorts of interesting conversations with Mr. and Mrs. Abbot from next door and Mr. Marland from down the street. There was eggnog to be sipped and little mince pies to be eaten. And he was missing it.

“It means don’t be _stupid._ ” The older boy snipped impatiently.

William looked up at Mycroft and blinked. Tears filled his eyes and his lower lip trembled. “I’m _not!_ I’m not, My!”

“William,” Mycroft softened his face and ran his hand through his carefully combed hair. “I didn’t mean it… I…”

Sniffling loudly, William pushed away from Mycroft and threw himself onto his nest of pillows. “I’m not thtupid, My _croft._ Go be a yucky grown up.” Mycroft didn’t try to dodge the pillow the little boy hurled at him.

“How do you build a fort?” Mycroft attempted to divert the building tantrum. It wouldn’t do to have William tattle to mummy. Not on Christmas Eve. 

“No, My. It’th perprothtrerouth, ‘member? Go ‘way!” William shouted.

 _Why?_ Oh, why had mummy sent _him_ to check on William? She knew they always fought. 

But he hadn’t meant to hurt his brother. William really was exceptionally clever. Not as clever as himself, but still, clever enough.

Besides, the Abbots only ever talked about their ugly dog, Muffy, and Mr. Marland smelled like grandmother’s attic. And egg nog looked like… slimy bogeys. Mycroft snickered at the joke he and William had shared earlier as mummy prepared for the dinner. William eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m sorry, William. You are not stupid. You are very clever. _I_ was being stupid for wanting to listen to dull Mr. Abbot talk about dull Muffy for hours and hours.” He smiled at William. “Please, can I stay and help you build your fort?” Looking around conspiratorially, he stage whispered, “So I don’t _die_ of boredom and bogey poisoning?”

With a giggle, William wiped his tearstained face on his sleeve. “ _Really?_ ”

“Yes, really. But then we have to go to sleep…” Mycroft took a deep breath. “…or Father Christmas won’t come.”

“Oh, yay!” Shouted the fully energized four year-old. “C’mon, My!” He grabbed his brother by the hand and dragged him to the middle of the room.

Over the next several minutes the boys arranged and rearranged the stack of boxes. Utilizing a bed sheet, the door of the wardrobe, the desk chair, and the toy chest, they were able to construct a fort. It really looked more like a poor excuse of a tent, but in the eyes of the four year-old, there had never been anything grander.

“Oh, brilliant, My!” William clapped in glee.

“Hmm. I think it’s missing something.” Mycroft tapped his index finger against his chin.

“What? What, My?” Excitement radiated off the little boy.

“It’s a surprise. You put on your pyjamas, and stuff as many blankets and pillows in there as you can. I’ll be right back!” Mycroft rushed from the room without another word.  
William scrambled to pull every single blanket and pillow from his bed. He arranged them into a thick, soft pile that covered the entire floor of the fort. He left his favorite quilt on top, just in case. 

He stood back to admire his work, and fairly vibrated with joy. When he heard Mycroft moving about in his own room, William remembered he was supposed to be putting on his PJs. He picked the red flannel ones because they looked like Christmas. Leaving his wrinkled dinner clothes in a pile on the floor he hurried into his pyjamas, being careful to do up every button just right.

Several agonizingly long minutes later, Mycroft found William sitting patiently (or, as patiently as a vibrating-with-sheer-excitement four year-old could be) on the floor just beside the fort.

“Look My! All the blanketth! And we match! We look like Chrithmath!” William jumped up and stood next to Mycroft, also in red flannel PJs.

“Indeed.” The older boy smiled. “And now, for the surprise. Go, and wait in the hall. I’ll only be a minute.” With that Mycroft set the basket he was carrying in the fort and crawled right in. William squealed with delight and ran to the hall.

He only peeked twice, but he couldn’t see a thing. “My, hurry!”

“Done! Come in, and turn out the lights!” 

William nearly tripped over himself as he scrambled into the room and flipped off the light switch.

The fort was glowing. _Glowing._

Diving through the entrance, William gasped. Mycroft had strung up colorful fairy lights inside their fort.

In his entire four years, William had never seen anything more beautiful. “My!” He sighed happily. And Mycroft had brought them a thermos of cocoa and gingerbread men. “Thank you, My! Thank you!” He threw his arms around his brother’s neck and planted a sloppy four year-old kiss on his cheek.

“Eww, William!” Mycroft laughed. “You’re welcome. Now sit down and eat your snack. And then we really do have to go to sleep. It’s late.”

“Will you thleep in the fort with me, My?” William slid down and sat in Mycroft’s lap. 

“I don’t know. I might be too old.” Mycroft lamented playfully.

“No, no, My!” William turned around and patted Mycroft’s face. “You’re my fav’rite brother. You can’t be too old. Ever.”

“I’m your only brother, silly.”

“Good. You have to thtay.” William smiled sweetly. He handed Mycroft a gingerbread man, and took one for himself.

They ate their snack in contented silence, until William looked up at Mycroft with his brows furrowed. “My, you believe in Father Chrithmath?”

Nearly choking, Mycroft took a sip of his cocoa. He cleared his throat. William was doing that thing with his eyes. It was like he could see every little thing. Mycroft was observant, but it was almost alarming what William could notice despite being so young.

“Don’t you?” Mycroft deflected.

“Yeth… but…” William hesitated, clearly troubled.

“What’s the matter, William?”

“Thometimeth, I’m naughty.” He buried his face in Mycroft’s knee.

“Hmm, I see. And what do we know about how Father Christmas feels about that?” Mycroft pressed his baby brother to think about his dilemma with logic.

With a sorrowful sigh, William whispered, “coal.”

Mycroft giggled. “True. But, are you sorry for the times you’ve been naughty?”

“Yeth?” He squinted up at Mycroft.

“Okay, then. You’ve been naughty, but you’re also sorry. Now, think about Father Christmas. Are people _supposed_ to just go into any stranger’s house, any time they please?”

“No.” William sat up a little straighter, keeping his eyes focused on Mycroft.

“Are they supposed to eat up other people’s mince pies?”

William covered his mouth with his hands to stifle the giggle. “No!”

“ _And_ are they supposed stomp all about on other people’s rooftops, with a herd of reindeer?”

William collapsed against Mycroft in a fit of laughter. “No!”

“So, what have we learned about Father Christmas?”

“He’th naughty too!” The giggles were uncontrollable now.

“I think you are correct, brother. And if _he_ is naughty, I think he can forgive you being naughty too. Unless,” Mycroft paused dramatically. “William, _please_ tell me you haven’t been stomping around on Mr. Marland’s rooftop with any reindeer. You haven’t have you?”

“My-yyy! No!” William laughed until he was overcome with coughing. And even then he giggled and hiccupped. “Maybe we can thet a trap for naughty Father Chrithmath!”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Mycroft grinned. “But there isn’t time tonight. Too much planning, and we’d have to override father’s security system. Maybe next year?”

“Yay! We’re gonna catch naughty Father Chrithmath!” A grinning William fell back onto the pile of cushions and yawned.

“And now, I think it’s time for sleep.” Mycroft stifled a yawn of his own. He snuggled down next to his brother, and pulled the quilt over them. 

William rolled toward Mycroft and hugged him. “Happy Chrithmath, My!”

“Happy Christmas, little brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, made it. It's still the third here in the good 'ole EST.


	4. Christmas Eve, 1984: Harry & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Train rides, wildebeests, and wardrobes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in memory of my own mom. She read "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe" to my sister and I when we were little. She instilled in me my love of the written word.

“How fast do you think we’re going, Harry?” John knelt in his seat, his face and both hands pressed tight against the cold window of the train. The eight year-old was was nearly vibrating with excitement.

“Fast? How should I know?” Harry shrugged without looking up from her magazine. 

“Well, how long until we get there?” Keeping his forehead pressed to the glass, John slowly rotated his head so he could get the best view of the horizon rushing ever toward them. It seemed like the front of the train was gobbling up the track ahead of them, but no matter how fast they went, they would never catch that distant point. 

Rocking his head in the other direction, he watched the used up track disappear behind them. He realized that he didn’t recognize any of the things they were passing by, and maybe he never would. But it was too late, because they were gone too quickly. His eyes widened at the bigness of the thought. 

John suddenly felt very small. And very overwhelmed.

“Harry?” He whispered and looked over his shoulder at his older sister.

“ _What,_ John? What is it now?” Harry snapped in exasperation. She fixed him with her best put-upon-twelve-year-old-girl glare.

Dropping his head to break the eye contact, John turned to press his forehead against the cool glass once more. His tone less excited, he mumbled, “I… Uhm, I _said,_ how long until we get there?”

“A few hours, I guess?” Harry stretched and finally turned to look at her brother. She giggled at the sight. John was small for his age, one of the smallest in his class, even smaller than most of the girls. He was wearing a grey, nondescript jumper that was almost a full size too large for him. It was the nicest jumper he owned, and it had been Harry’s when she was the same age. He loved it for that reason alone. Harry couldn’t help smiling.

“How _many_ hours?” John pressed.

“I don’t know, Ish. Maybe three? Why are you in a hurry? I thought you wanted to live on the train forever.” Harry made a face.

“I do!” John giggled. “But I also want to go to Gran’s house! So, I need to know how long I get to stay on the train,” John reasoned. Harry nodded at the eight year-old logic.

“Well, you’re the one with the watch. Keep track of it.” She motioned to his wrist.

“Oh! I forgot!” He turned in his seat to face Harry. Still kneeling, he sat back on his heels and admired the timepiece. It wasn’t anything spectacular. Upon a truly close inspection, a discerning eye would see immediately what poor condition it was in; the plated gold was worn almost through to the cheaper metals underneath, and the red leather band was dull and cracked.

Mum had given them their Christmas gifts early, since Gran had sent for them to come visit her for Christmas. Mum had managed to scrape enough money together, without Jonathan finding out, to buy the watch from the corner pawn shop. She sat on John’s bed and pulled him into her lap.

“Johnny, I love you so much. You are getting so big, and one day, soon, you are going to be a brave, strong, kind man who is going to help and take care of people. And a good man needs a good watch.” Mum had pulled the used watch from her pocket then, and slowly fastened it on John’s wrist. “This one… This one isn’t very special. It’s not as good as you deserve, my beautiful, sweet boy. And I’m sorry that it isn’t a left handed watch, and that the leather is cracked and the gold is dull. But if you take very good care of it, when you’re older, I _promise,_ you’ll have the best, most beautiful watch any man could ever dream of having. Because you will be a very good man, Johnny. I promise.”

With his most brilliant smile, John had turned to thank mum, only to find her crying. “Mum! Don’t cry!” He had kissed her cheek, hugged her tight, and repeated over and over, “I love it. Thank you. I love it so much, mum. And I love you. Thank you, mum. Please don’t cry. Thank you.”

Harry was called over then, because John had wrapped himself around mum, and had anchored her in place. “My dear, lovely girl. You are more beautiful than you will ever truly understand. Your heart is magnificent, and you love deeply. You are bold, and smart, and courageous in ways I will never be. I love you so much, and I want you to have this. My heart.” Mum held up a beautiful silver, heart shaped locket. “Gran gave it to me when I was a girl, and I want you to have it now.” Inside the locket, mum had placed a picture of herself with Harry’s real father, and a picture of Harry holding John as a baby. She slid the necklace over Harry’s head, and admired it on her daughter. “ _Beautiful,_ ” she whispered.

Blinking back tears, Harry gazed out the window of the train. She felt pressure on her shoulder, and startled back to the present. “Ish?” John pressed up as close to her side as physically possible and rested his head on her shoulder.

“Are you sad, Harry? I thought you love going to Gran’s house.” He blinked up at her with eyes that were too wise for someone so small.

“Oh, Ish. I’m not sad. I’m just thinking of mum. I hope she’s not too lonely without us.” Harry hugged her brother to her.

“I miss her too,” John whispered.

“How do you always know what I’m really thinking, Ish? Are you a wizard?” With a giggle, Harry tightened her right arm around John, and lunged to tickle him with her left hand.

“No, Harry!” John squealed with laughter and scrambled back away from her. Eyes wild with panic, he covered his mouth with both hands to stifle his giggles. He looked around the train car. The couple seated in front of them looked back and smiled. The old man behind them grumbled. John didn’t want to make the man angry, but he just couldn’t help it. His whole body shook as he tried to recover from the tickles. 

“Not fair, Harry!” John tried to keep his voice low. He watched Harry carefully.

“What’s not fair?” She lunged to try to tickle him again.

Trying his very hardest not to scream, John couldn’t help a few high pitched laughs from escaping. He put both hands out against Harry’s forehead and tried to shove her away. “Har… Harry… stop!” He gasped. “You… you’re too big!”

Putting on her best pouting face she crossed her arms over her chest. “Too big? _Too big?_ I’ll show you!” She slid over hard, and crammed John into the corner of his seat. “Ah, finally, plenty of space for me!” She giggled.

“Harry!” John laughed. He shoved at her with a grunt. “Get off, you… you… great _wildebeest_!”

Stunned Harry sat up and looked at John. “Harry… I…” Before he could apologize, Harry snorted in laughter, which made her laugh even harder.

“Wi-wildebeest? Oh my god, Ish. Where did that come from?” Harry laughed so hard she was crying.

“Harry… Shhh…” John was giggling uncontrollably too. “Shhh… Harry… We can’t be so loud on the train. What if they make us get off?”

“Where will they send us?” Harry motioned out the window to the wide open countryside. “Out with the wildebeests?” She giggle-snorted again, and that set John off once more.

“Harry…” John giggled. " _Harry..._ Shhh…” He leaned toward her, blushing, and whispered. “I hafta go to the loo.”

With a wave of her hand in the direction of the loo, Harry shook her head. “Such a baby.” John shoved her away with a grin and trotted off. 

Still giggling, Harry pulled her backpack out from under the seat, pulled out the book she had brought along, and the bag of biscuits Mrs. McMillan had sent for their trip.

“What’s this?” John snatched up the book and plopped onto the seat with a bounce. “‘The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.’ What’s that? Is it scary?”

Very gently, Harry took the book from her brother, and opened up the front cover, revealing childish scrawl. _This book belongs to Ailie Ferguson._ John looked up at her with those questioning, brilliant blue eyes, and Harry thought her heart would melt. “This was mum’s favorite book when she was a girl. She gave it to me,” Harry pointed to her name, _Harry Watson,_ scribbled underneath the first name. “I wanted to share it with you.”

John nodded, suddenly serious with the weighty responsibility of holding mum’s most favorite book in his hands. 

“C’mon then,” Harry pulled John against her side, and wrapped an arm around him. “Do you want to read, or do you want me to?”

“You.” John’s voice was small. He handed the book to her with a smile. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry planted a kiss on the crown of his head, and hugged John tight. She handed him the bag of biscuits and started reading. “‘ _Chapter One, Lucy Looks Into a Wardrobe…_ ’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word: Foreshadowing.


	5. Christmas Day, 1986: Mycroft & Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William searches for empirical evidence.
> 
> And the Holmes family gets an addition.

“ _No!_ ” A disheartened cry startled Mycroft awake. He tried to sit up quickly, but found himself tangled in blankets and swatting colorful fairy lights from around his head.

“What? _What’s_ wrong?” Mycroft rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked rapidly.

“You let me fall asleep!” William slammed both fists down in front of him, though the result was less than the desired effect since the only surface available was a heap of blankets and pillows. He sighed in frustration, and crossed his arms over his chest in a full six year-old strop.

“William…” Mycroft yawned and ran a hand through his sleep rumpled hair. “You don’t even believe in Father Christmas, why are you so obsessed with this?” The thirteen year-old was tempted to snuggle back into the makeshift bed of blankets and cushions, but one look at the pouting boy before him made it clear that no one was going back to sleep any time soon.

“Empirical. Evidence. _Mycroft._ ” William snipped.

“Empirical… evidence?” The older boy smiled and shook his head. “Who taught you about empirical evidence?”

“No one _taught_ me, I learned it myself! I know how to read, you know.” The six year-old huffed.

“Ah. You’ve found mummy’s book, have you?” Mycroft smiled warmly. 

“Mummy’s really… She’s very smart, isn’t she?” William looked down at his hands. “I can’t understand her book at all.”

With a chuckle, Mycroft ruffled William’s hair. “ _I _don’t understand most of it yet either. Most people don’t. I think mummy may be the cleverest person we know.”__

__“Hmm.” With a furrowed brow, William considered this revelation. He looked up at Mycroft and nodded slowly. “Yes. I think so. But…” Sitting up on his knees, he motioned broadly to the bedroom door. “If she’s so clever, why does she keep talking about Father Christmas? Doesn’t she _know_ he’s not real?”_ _

__William _knew_ there was no such thing as Father Christmas. He _knew_ it. He and Mycroft had set a trap for him last year, and had turned up empty handed. William had rejected the idea of the magical being, and Mycroft had encouraged him to prove his hypothesis. With Mycroft’s help, William had built a very convincing case against the probability of the existence of Father Christmas. _ _

__They had considered the 4.9 billion people living on the earth at the time. The amount of time required to deliver gifts to each and every home. The circumference of the earth. Climates that were and were not conducive to travel by reindeer. The fact that the majority of modern homes were not constructed with fireplaces and chimneys. And what about all the people who didn’t even celebrate Christmas? Would a generous Father Christmas deny them gifts?_ _

__Even considering time zones (a concept that had thoroughly confounded William for two whole days), the likelihood that such a trip could be possible was, well, _not_ possible. It simply made no logical sense._ _

__The only thing they were missing was empirical evidence, proof with their own eyes, that Father Christmas didn’t exist. Sure, their trap had failed, but there were still gifts left under the tree and the stockings were filled, and mummy had carried on about Father Christmas coming. William knew, he just _knew_ if he could stay awake this year, he could catch the mysterious gift giver, and he would have empirical evidence that Father Christmas was fake._ _

__“Perhaps she’s catering to an expected social convention?” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow._ _

__“Thocial… Uhm, _So_ cial conventions?” With a frown, William scooted nearer to Mycroft. “Explain.”_ _

__“Social conventions are a set of agreed upon standards and expectations that are often demonstrated in the form of customs and traditions. Perhaps talking about Father Christmas is an expected social convention for adults.” Mycroft shrugged. “Ridiculous as that may be.”_ _

__William nodded in understanding and pressed his fingers to his lips._ _

__“How did the gifts get there, even with our trap, My?” The six year-old slumped down and sat on his heels._ _

__Mycroft smiled. He truly enjoyed this game with his little brother. They had spent a year planning a trap for Father Christmas, and Mycroft had been able to teach William some basic principles of maths and physics. Of course, he had explained the whole thing to mummy and father, who had both beamed at him proudly, and encouraged him to continue. After the trap was foiled, Mycroft had spent the year teaching William research and reasoning techniques. Despite the preposterous subject matter, Mycroft had loved every moment of teaching his baby brother to use his full mental capacity. William was proving to be a _very_ capable and eager, though easily distracted, student._ _

__“Now William, you know very well, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the…” Mycroft gestured to William._ _

__“ _Truth!_ But, if I didn’t see Father Christmas, I have no empirical evidence.” William sighed._ _

__“Did you write the letter mummy was pestering you about?” Mycroft asked, knowing full well mummy hadn’t let the matter of letters to Father Christmas go until they had both penned their letters._ _

__Eyes wide, William nodded enthusiastically. “I did!”_ _

__“What did you ask him for? If that is the gift you receive, perhaps there is magic after all.” Mycroft shrugged once more._ _

__“Well, I asked him for proof.” William scratched the back of his neck and Mycroft laughed at that. “ _And_ … I asked him for a friend.”_ _

__“A friend? Oh, William.” Mycroft hugged his little brother._ _

__“People are… confusing, My.” William sniffed._ _

__“They are indeed.” Nodding sympathetically, Mycroft lifted his brother’s chin. “But no matter what, we always have each other.”_ _

__“I know, My. But some day you’re gonna be grown up, and I’ll be all by myself. And that will be… dull.” William hugged Mycroft back._ _

__“Let’s not think about that now. Let’s go see if we can find you some empirical evidence, okay?” Mycroft crawled from their blanket fort, and pulled William after him. “_ _

__“Okay, My.” William braved a trembling smile. He took Mycroft’s hand and pulled him from the room to the steps. An odd sort of whimpering noise greeted them from the doorway. “Did you hear that, My? What _was_ that?”_ _

__“I… I have no idea, William. I…” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and glanced into the sitting room. “Oh… no…” He sighed. “William, I think you got what you asked Father Christmas for. I think he brought you a friend…”_ _

__“A _PUPPY!_ ” William shrieked with delight. Clapping his hands he ran to where mummy was snuggling a tiny ball of red fur. “Oh, a puppy! Is it for me, mummy?”_ _

__“Well, your name is on the card attached to her crate, dear.” Mummy smiled. “What will you call her, William?”_ _

__“Redbeard.” The boy declared resolutely._ _

__“Redbeard? You can’t name a girl puppy a _boy_ pirate name!” Mycroft exclaimed. _ _

__“I can!” William stomped his foot defiantly._ _

__“Dear, what about… Fluffy?” Mummy suggested._ _

__“Ew. No.”_ _

__“Maggie? For the Iron Lady?” That was father._ _

__“Hmph.”_ _

__“Marie, for Madam Curie?” Mycroft offered._ _

__“NO!” The six year-old pouted. “She’s _MY_ friend, and I’m going to name her. And her name is Redbeard. Because she’s red. And we’re going to be pirates.”_ _

__“But… girls don’t have beards!” Frustrated, Mycroft dropped into an armchair._ _

__“Auntie Elizabeth does.” William stuck his tongue out at Mycroft._ _

__“William!” Mummy exclaimed. Father coughed to cover a chuckle._ _

__“It’s true dear.” Father whispered._ _

__“Stop it you two. You must be nice.” Scolding, mummy tried not to giggle._ _

__“So… Redbeard it is.” Father smiled and attempted to change the subject._ _

__“YAY!” William clapped with glee. “C’mon Redbeard, I wanna show you my room! You and me are gonna be _best_ friends!” He scooped up the puppy and dashed toward the steps._ _

__Mycroft watched William scramble up the steps, jabbering to Redbeard all the way. He smiled sadly, and ran his hand over his hair._ _

__“You’re still his brother dear,” Mummy squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder._ _

__“Whatever are you talking about, mummy?” Mycroft cleared his throat. “I’m sure…”_ _

__“Hey, My! Aren’t you coming? I’m gonna show Redbeard our fort!” William shouted down the stairs._ _

__“See? He’s always going to need you dear.” Mummy hugged him tightly._ _

__“Happy Christmas, mummy. Father.” Mycroft smiled and took the stairs two at a time. “Coming, William!”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redbeard, canonically is a male dog. But... beard joke.


	6. Christmas Eve, 1986: Harry & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes John a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware. There be tears ahead...

**THREE WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS**

_Harry trailed her fingers along the spines of the volumes lining the shelf. She was completely out of her element, and very near overwhelmed. She inhaled deeply, and let the familiar smell of the worn paper and ink calm her._

_Glancing over her shoulder at the novels, Harry sighed. This would be so much easier if John didn’t have his heart set. Of course, he had no idea what she was planning to get him for Christmas, and she was certain he would love any one of the adventure stories at her back. While stories of knights and spies would help him escape reality for a few hours, Harry was more interested in seeing him escape the nightmare their lives had become._

_Treating the text in front of her as if it were something sacred, Harry pulled one of the used anthologies from the shelf. The weight of the book surprised her; the price tag nearly caused her to drop it out of shock. With a pained groan, Harry slid the textbook back into place. She took a step back and stared helplessly at the shelves._

_”Can I help you find anything? The young adult literature is right over there.” A kindly older gentleman stepped up next to Harry, and smiled as he pointed to a far corner. He wore small wire rimmed glasses, a tweed suit, complete with vest and pocket watch, and his salt and pepper hair was thinning on top. Harry thought she had never seen anyone more distinguished looking in her entire life._

_Shaking her head, Harry pointed at the shelves in front of them. “No, I… Uhm… My brother. He wants to be a doctor. And, I…”_

_”Oh, splendid! He wants to be a doctor, and you want to help him get started! How wonderful!” The man clasped his hands together in delight and grinned down at her. “We have quite a selection of used textbooks, as I see you’ve noticed. There are quite a lot to sort through, aren’t there?” He tapped his index finger on his chin and hummed as he scanned the titles._

_”Ah! I think this is just the one you’re looking for!” He pulled a book from the shelf and held it out for Harry to see. “’Gray’s Anatomy.’ Every medical student has need of one of these. Despite being used, this is the newest edition, and is in near new condition.”_

_Harry reached for the book, but froze when she saw the price. “Oh. I… I can’t afford that much. I only have…” She blushed with embarrassment. “I think I’m wasting your time. I’m sorry. Maybe… I’ll just go.”_

_”Wait, please don’t go. It is dreadfully expensive, isn’t it?” He smiled sympathetically. “Let’s see if we can find something a bit more reasonable, shall we?” He placed the book back on the shelf and stuck his hand out to Harry. “I’m Mr. Shamrock.”_

_Harry giggled despite herself and reached out to shake his hand. “I’m Harry Watson.”_

_”It is an usual name, isn’t it?” Mr. Shamrock chuckled. “So, Miss. Watson, why don’t you tell me about your brother?” He crouched down to peruse the titles on the lowest shelves._

_”Oh. Uhm, John is… He’s so smart. The best student in his class. He loves to read, and learn. He’s always helping people. And he decided he wanted to be a doctor last year when our mum…” Harry went silent and inspected her finger nails._

_”I see.” Mr. Shamrock stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from his suit. He cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry for your loss Miss. Watson.”_

_With a shrug, Harry met his gaze. “It’s…” She blinked back the threatening tears. “Cancer. It was too bad. They couldn’t help her. Johnny decided then he wanted to be a doctor, so other kids won’t have to lose their mums too.”_

_Mr. Shamrock hummed with realization. “How old is your brother, Miss. Watson?”_

_”John? He’s ten.” Harry smiled proudly._

_Smiling brightly, Mr. Shamrock clapped his hands together once. “Excellent. An ambitious young man. You know, I think I may have just the thing you’re looking for. Why don’t you wait for me at the counter? I’ll be right back.”_

_Harry took her time walking through the little used book shop, reading titles along the way. She thought her mum would’ve loved this place._

_”Found it!” Mr. Shamrock placed the book on the counter for Harry to see. It was another “Gray’s Anatomy.” “It’s several editions out of date, and the condition isn’t the_ best, _but he’ll need a newer one by the time he goes off to university.”_

_”That’s… that’s great.” Harry smiled shyly. “But…” She glanced at the price. “It’s still more than I have.”_

_”Ah, well, I thought perhaps we could work out a trade.” Mr. Shamrock smiled, and Harry looked at him warily. He chuckled. “I know you probably couldn’t tell it now,” he glanced around the empty shop, “but this is actually my busiest season. I could always use an extra set of hands, keeping the place tidy, making sure the books are kept orderly.”_

_”Re-really? I could work here?” Harry bit her lip to keep from grinning._

_”For a few hours after school each day? You could work here until you cover the cost of the book. And then, if you think you enjoy it here, perhaps we could discuss you staying on after the holidays?”_

“Really?” _Harry squealed. “Yes! Yes, I would love to! Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Shamrock! Thank you!”_

_”We’ll just need to make sure it’s okay with your father first.”_

_Harry’s face fell. “Oh… He, uhm… I don’t think…”_

_Mr. Shamrock watched the change come over Harry’s countenance, and his own face softened. “You know, I think we can go ahead and get you started. I’ll talk with him… later. What do you say?” He stuck his hand out to her once more._

_Grinning up at him, Harry reached out and shook his hand._

 

**CHRISTMAS EVE**

Mr. Shamrock decided to close the book shop early. Harry had agreed to work that morning, since there was no school. She’d made John promise to stay in the flat, and swore she’d only be gone a few hours.

It was just past noon when Harry returned home, her gift for John wrapped in shiny red paper tucked safely under her arm, and a small bag containing two apples and two scones that Mrs. Shamrock had sent to her. 

“John? Where are you?” Harry looked around the empty main room of the flat.

It wasn't unusual for John to be tucked away in a corner somewhere, completely absorbed in a book. Harry giggled as she checked behind the sofa. No John. Under the table maybe? Nope.

"C'mon, John. Where are you hiding?" Glancing around once more, Harry noticed something familiar sticking out of the bin. "Oh... Oh no."

Very carefully, Harry lifted what remained of the paper Christmas tree they had made with mum all those years ago. It had been torn to bits. "Ish? _Ish!_ " Frantic, Harry ran through the flat to their room.

"Ish! What're you doing? Didn't you hear me?" Harry demanded as she burst through the door. She stopped short when she realized John was curled in a tight ball under the quilt on her bed.

"I... I just wanted surprise you. I was hanging up the tree... And he came home..." John’s voice broke. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Harry..." John sat up to face his sister.

"Oh, Ish! What did he do?" Harry cried. She dropped everything as she dove onto the bed and took John's face in her hands. His left eye was swollen and circled by a deep purple bruise, and his lip was split.

"I hate him. I hate him _so much._ Oh god, Ish. I'm so sorry. I should have been here." Harry wept as she inspected every inch of her brother's beautiful face, marred by undeserved wrath. Ever since mum had died, and Jonathan had been forced back to work, his impatience for the daughter who wasn't his own, and his anger toward the son who looked too much like lost love, had grown with each passing day. He'd slapped Harry for sass, but he'd never laid hands on John. Until today. "I'll kill him. I am. I'm going to kill him."

"Harry... Harry please, stop. I'm okay. I'll be fine. It doesn't hurt so bad. Please..." John clung tightly to his sister.

"Oh, Ish." Harry wrapped him protectively in her arms. They held on to each other and cried until there just weren't any tears left to cry.

“Harry, I miss mum.” John sniffled into his sister’s shoulder.

“I do too, Ish. Every day.” Harry pulled back from the embrace to look at her brother’s battered face. “Oh, little brother.” She sighed. “I’m gonna get us away from here. Mr. Shamrock said I can keep working for him. And I’m gonna work as hard as I can, and I’m gonna take us away from here. I promise.”

“Really, Harry? You promise?” John’s lip trembled.

“I swear.” Harry stood up from the bed and grabbed her gift for John. “And this… I know it’s not Christmas yet, but this is for you. This is going to help you get far, far away too. You have to promise me you’ll use it every day, okay?”

John took the package and carefully tore the paper away. He studied the cover of the book for a few minutes before looking up at Harry. “Is this… Is it a _real_ doctor book?”

“It is. Mr. Shamrock says every doctor has one.” Harry grinned.

John held the book in his hands as he would a priceless treasure. “Harry.” He sniffed. “Thank you.” He hugged her again, and scrambled off the bed. Dropping to the floor, John dug around under his bed for a moment, and produced a small blue box. He stood in front of Harry and thrust the box into her hands.

“Ish…”

“It’s… It’s not pretty as the one mum gave you.” John ducked his head. “But you were so sad when _he_ took the other one. I saved up. And I helped Mr. McMillan. And… Happy Christmas, Harry.”

Harry opened the box and found a gold colored heart shaped locket. “Oh, Ish…” She started to cry once more.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I know it’s not like mum’s one but, when I’m a doctor, I’ll get you a better one. I promise. Please, don’t cry, Harry. I’m sorry.” John hung his head.

“No, little brother. Don’t say sorry. It’s perfect. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Come here.” She pulled him into another hug. “Happy Christmas, Ish. I love you. So, so much.”

“Love you too, Harry. Forever and always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to leave you with a bit of hope after that mess... I am in love with Sherlock's hijinks in the next chapter. Like, I wish I would have had this idea back when I was still in school.


	7. Christmas Eve, 1990: Mycroft & Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William puts a consulting detective's spin on a Christmas classic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redbeard's not in this one... I couldn't make it work without bogging down the narrative... and I'm kinda sad for it.

_”Marley was dead to begin with.”_ William dropped the crumpled bundle of papers with a smack on top of the open books spread out on Mycroft’s desk. He turned with a huff and threw himself down on his brother’s bed.

“I’m… sorry?” Mycroft turned to take in the sight. He cocked an eyebrow and frowned. “William. Shoes.”

“Ugh.” William sighed. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, quick, appraising eyes taking in every inch of his brother. He hummed with amusement. “A stone, I think.”

 _”I’m sorry?”_ Mycroft glared with narrowed eyes.

“You’re seventeen, living a largely sedentary lifestyle, hidden away in the library or locked away in your room. Too socially inept, after years of living in the shadow of our illustrious parents, to comfortably mingle with your idiot peers, you subsist off take away and baked goods that mummy sends you.” William waved a hand dismissively with a smirk. “Resulting in a stone. At least.”

Mycroft huffed with indignation. “You… You’re ten years old. You would do well to learn some manners.”

“Why does everyone _insist_ on reminding me how old I am? I am well aware.” William toed off his tatty Converse and sprawled on the bed once more. He shifted around until his shoulders and head hung off the end of the bed and he was looking at Mycroft upside down. “It’s _dull._ ”

“ _Everyone?_ ” Mycroft turned his chair and crossed one leg over the other. He folded his hands in his lap. “Explain.”

“Mummy and father.” William counted off with his fingers. “Those imbecilic neanderthals I am forced to endure at school all day long…”

“If you call your classmates imbeciles to their faces, it’s no wonder they’ve grown frustrated with you. Especially since they’re all two years older.” Mycroft shook his head, though he appeared amused.

William scoffed. “I don’t waste my time with those bottom dwellers. The neanderthals are the teachers.”

Coughing to cover a chuckle, Mycroft shook his head with a smile. “William. You _really_ need to exercise some restraint. Your teachers, tiresome as they may be, are there to assist with your…”

“Mycroft. They’re idiots. All of them.” He motioned toward the desk. “Case in point.”

Taking a moment to actually examine the pages William had tossed in front of him, Mycroft snorted with laughter. “So, you’re going by your middle name now? Really?”

“Pffft. There are four other Williams in my class. _Four._ Idiots. Each one more so than the last. I refuse to be identified by such a common nomenclature.”

“Genus Moronicus. I am familiar.” Mycroft grinned. 

William furrowed his brows. “Genus… Moron…icus.” He pressed his fingers to his mouth, but he didn’t even try to stifle the laughter. “Brilliant, My.” Mycroft smiled warmly at the use of the childhood nickname. William rolled his eyes.

“So, little brother. What am I looking at here?” Mycroft waved the pages at William.

“An in-depth study into the character of Scrooge as the man who murdered Marley, his business partner.” William, still hanging upside down, crossed his arms over his chest.

Throwing his head back, Mycroft laughed more genuinely than he had in months. “Oh, William.” 

With a scowl, William flipped his feet over his head and did an awkward somersault off the bed. Laying sprawled out on his back, he drummed his fingers on the floor. “I fail to see the humor. It’s a legitimate, well thought out, technically perfectly constructed argument.” 

“You’re serious? You wrote an essay accusing Ebeneezer Scrooge of murdering Marley?” Mycroft cleared his throat and attempted to school his features into something resembling serious interest. His eyes sparkled with delight. Leave it to William to turn a beloved Christmas classic into a tale of murder and treachery.

“Of course I’m serious. You’ve read it! The story opens with focus on Marley’s death.” Sitting up and facing Mycroft, William cleared his throat. “And I quote, _’Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event…’”_

William jumped to his feet, and began pacing. “Who else but Scrooge had anything to gain by Marley’s death? He stood to inherit all of Marley’s assets. If Scrooge’s own accounts were any indication, the gain would have been quite substantial. Not to mention maintaining sole control of his firm.” He spun to face Mycroft. “Motive, pure and simple.”

Incredulous, Mycroft huffed a laugh. “William…”

“Then, there is the matter of his own guilt, manifested in nightmares and hallucinations.” William began pacing once more.

“Are you referring to the ghosts?” Mycroft chuckled. “William, I think you are missing the main point. I…”

“Ghosts do not exist, Mycroft. The hallucinations Scrooge saw, they were memories and imaginations, nothing more. He was experiencing guilt, hence the projections of his deceased partner onto everyday objects.” William began checking off items on his list with his fingers once again. “The ghost representing the past? Scrooge was simply recalling his formative years, the events that brought him to the most current point in his life. The ghost presenting the present was simply Scrooge projecting what he expected would be happening, based on what he knew of his remaining acquaintances.”

“And the Ghost of Christmas Future?” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow in challenge.

“The man murdered his only friend, of course he would be anxious about his own impending death.” William shrugged. 

“I…” Mycroft spread his hands in front of him. “Wait. What of Scrooge celebrating with his family and giving gifts?”

“Classic suicidal tendencies.” William waved him off.

“Su-suicidal… tendencies? You cannot be serious.” Mycroft laughed.

“Based on popular psychology, there are signs to look for in those who are suicidal. Scrooge demonstrated several… He was morbidly obsessed with his own death. Clearly depressed and withdrawn from his social circles. Obvious signs of anxiety. Out of character behaviors, including, but not limited to, giving away those things that were most important to him, in this case, his wealth.” William crossed his arms over his chest, daring Mycroft to challenge him.

“Little brother, I must say, your thought process appears to be quite sound.” Mycroft seemed genuinely impressed.

Energized by Mycroft’s praise, William continued. “I haven’t even mentioned the author’s use of Hamlet’s father as an illustration. And then…”

“William, you don’t need to convince me any further. Though, I would like to read your full essay.” Flipping through the pages, Mycroft looked up at his brother. “How long is this?”

“Fifteen pages.”

“Fifteen… William, if you don’t mind me asking, what was the actual assignment, as given by your teacher?” Mycroft tapped his finger on the pages.

William cleared his throat and hung his head sheepishly. “A three page book report.”

Mycroft laughed loudly. “Oh, dear brother. And what grade did you receive?”

Silently, William took the pages from Mycroft’s hands and shuffled through them to the last page. He looked away as he thrust the stack forward. Mycroft blinked as he read the teacher’s note.

_“Suicidal tendencies and murder? You’re ten years old. Do it again. Follow the assignment, or this will be marked as a failure.”_

“You’re right, William. He’s an imbecile.” Mycroft shook his head. “What will you do?”

“Mummy was angry. She’s already talked to him. I got half credit, for technique and content. But I lost points for not following the assignment.” William rolled his eyes. Mycroft hummed in agreement.

“She calls me Sherlock, you know.” William smiled smugly.

“Yes, well, mummy does have her sanity to consider.” Mycroft snickered.

“My…” William traced a pattern on the floor with his toe. “Are you going to come downstairs and spend the evening with us?”

“I will… In a while. I’m trying to get a head start on some of my work.” Mycroft motioned to the books piled on his desk.

“Oh. Okay.” William turned to leave the room. “I guess I should go.”

“Wil… Sherlock?” Mycroft cleared his throat. William turned, a stunned look on his face. “Uhm, I was wondering… Later… Fort? I could, if you would like, I could bring the cocoa?”

Wil… Sherlock grinned. “I would like that very much. Thanks, My.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm mad I never had the idea that Scrooge could have murdered Marley back when I was writing for grades in school/college. I would have written the crap out of that theory.
> 
> This is probably my favorite chapter so far, just because it was fun to write.


	8. Christmas Eve, 1990: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note the title of the chapter.
> 
> But John does get a little help from a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING**  
> Abusive situation.

John hadn't meant to be heard. 

As a general rule, things went better for him if he remained silent. _Stay quiet. Stay low. Stay still._ That was his mantra.

Not that his life was anything exciting anyway. Especially not since Harry left a year and a half ago.

Not that he could blame her. 

Harry left two days before her seventeenth birthday. She and John had been goofing off, playing mum’s old records, dancing and singing around the tiny flat. There had been teasing and name calling, and secrets shared and laughter.

John told Harry some of the lads on his rugby team had snuck their mum’s cigarettes. He had tried them, but hated them. Harry admitted she thought she had a crush on her best friend Amber. They were going out for pizza to celebrate her birthday, and Harry was going to try to sneak a kiss. 

John had giggled at first, but had grown very serious. “It’s okay, Harry.”

“Ish? What do you mean?” Harry frowned slightly.

With a blush, John ducked his head. “I just… I hope she loves you back.”

With a grin, Harry threw her arms around her little brother. “Ish. You’re the best. I’m going to make sure and bring you back some pizza, okay?”

“If you’re not too busy kissing Amber!” John taunted, making kissy noises. Harry shoved him away with a laugh and then lunged after him. “Harry loves Amber! Harry loves Amber!” John laughed as they tumbled to the floor in a heap of elbows and playful punches.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” Jonathan Watson chose that moment to burst through the front door in a drunken rage. He took in the sight of Harry and John wrestling on the floor as the playful words died on John’s lips. He had pulled Harry up by her hair and smacked her hard. He shoved her into the wall and let her slide to the floor. 

“What did you just say?” He turned on John with a roar, pulling him up by his neck. “What. Did. You. Say.” John didn’t fight back, he simply bit his lip and averted his eyes, provoking even more wrath. Jonathan growled and shook him twice.

“Let him go!” Harry screamed, standing to her feet. She dove to John’s aid, but Jonathan was quicker, and backhanded her. She crumpled to the floor, and Jonathan dropped John. He took one step toward her, and John found his voice.

“Run, Harry. Please, go!” John cried. “Run!” With tears running down her face and her lip split, Harry shook her head to say no. “Harry!” John pleaded as pulled on Jonathan’s arm.

“John…” Harry wept as she dashed to the door. “I’ll be back, okay? I won’t leave you here. I swear!” Jonathan had slammed the door and locked it as Harry screamed for her brother from the hallway.

She hadn’t come back.

She’d called John on her birthday, and promised. “Soon.” He thought she’d slurred her words, but he’d convinced himself he had misheard.

John had gone to the bookstore to see Harry. She wouldn’t tell him where she was staying. “Safer if you don’t know,” she’d reasoned. John had frowned. “Ish, please. I’m working as hard as I can, and I’m going to save up, and I’ll come and get you, okay? I promise. But not yet.”

 _Not yet_ had turned into months. And now a year and a half later, John hadn’t spoken to Harry for six weeks. Or was it seven? She’d not been to the bookstore for three months.

Mr. Shamrock had taken pity, and hired John in her absence.

And now it was the second Christmas Eve since Harry left. John had spent the morning working at the shop, and had come home in high spirits just after noon. He hummed cheerfully as he felt the small box in his coat pocket. He’d found Harry the perfect gift, and she’d promised she would come. John unlocked the door to the flat with a grin, and stepped right into the path of Jonathan’s wrath.

The beating hadn’t lasted long, but it had been fierce. John had cried out, incurring greater fury. Jonathan wore himself out and left John in a heap on the floor, storming from the flat.

John remained on the floor, and waited until he heard Jonathan out on the street. He moved to drag himself off the floor, and cried out in pain once more.

“John? Dear, is that you?”

John swore under his breath. Jonathan had failed to pull the door closed, and now Mrs. McMillan was going to see the results of the drunken rages.

There was a reason John played rugby.

No one questioned the co-captain of the rugby team when he turned up with bruises, cuts and sprains. Dedication they called it. And everyone bought it. 

Or so he thought.

“John? Sweetheart, I won’t come in, but my Joel is home for Christmas. I’m going to send him over, okay? He’s a doctor.” Before John could respond, he heard Mrs. McMillan open the door of her flat and call for her son. 

Mumbled voices, and quick tap on the door later, and Joel McMillan stepped into the flat. “Hey, mate. Wow, you’ve grown. It’s been a long time, yeah? You're what, 15 now?” Joel’s smile wavered, and his eyes gleamed with anger, as he crouched to meet John’s gaze.

“Uhm… Yeah. 14, actually. Hey, Joel.” Humiliated, John tried to sit up. He hissed in pain.

“Let me help?” Joel carefully lifted John off the floor and guided him to one of the mismatched straight back chairs around the table. “Looks like you’re favoring that wrist. Let me take a look?”

John hesitated, but held his right arm out. Joel took his time prodding and inspecting his hand, wrist and arm. “Well, I don’t think it’s broken, but that’s a pretty nasty sprain. I can wrap it for you, and patch up that cut on your face if you’d like.” Joel spoke softly, though his features were hardened. “But I’d rather take you to the A&E…”

“No! No… Please…” John glanced at the door in a panic. 

“Okay… All right, John. No hospital. Just… Stay put, yeah? I’ll be right back.” Joel smiled sadly as he stood. “Right back.”

Moments later Joel returned with a first aid kit and a bag of ice. Mr. McMillan followed behind with two wrapped plates. Setting the plates on the table, Mr. McMillan looked John up and down, cleared his throat and blinked rapidly. “Joel’s the best there is, lad. He’s going to fix you right up.” He turned quickly and strode through the door.

Joel chuckled. “Dad’s a sentimental one.”

John sighed in response. “So… Where’ve you been, Joel?” 

Taking John’s wrist gently, Joel began wrapping it in a bandage. As he worked he told John of adventures he’d had in India, Indonesia, and the Sudan, as he travelled with Doctors Without Borders. “Mum tells me you’re going to be a doctor too.” Joel smiled. “The MSF could always use more help.”

“I’m gonna join the RAMC. They… they’ll pay for school, and… and, I can be a surgeon.” Suddenly bashful, John turned his face away.

“ _That_ is a fantastic idea. Here, hold this in place.” Joel grinned at John, and placed the ice pack on his wrist. He inspected John’s face. “This might sting.” He set to work on the cut on John’s cheek. “You know, we can always use good surgeons too. Once you’re tired of saving the world with the big guns, you can come and save it with your hands.”

“Really?” John smiled. “I… Maybe.” He nodded. “Maybe.”

“Keep us in mind, yeah?” Joel stood up to wash his hands. He turned to face John once more. “So, mum thought you might like some lunch. You wanna join us over there? Or…” He motioned to the plates. 

“I think I’ll stay here. Harry… Harry’s s’pose to come.” John stood suddenly and snatched his coat off the floor. He dug in the pockets until he found the small package. It was only kind of crumpled. John sighed.

“Fair enough.” Joel unwrapped both plates and pulled his chair up to the table. “Come on then. I’m starving.”

“You… you don’t have to stay here.” John watched Joel take a bite of his sandwich.

“If I go back over there, mum’s going to make me bake biscuits, so…” Joel shrugged with a smile.

John laughed. “God forbid.” He dropped into his chair and placed the gift gingerly on the table. 

“Hey, that reminds me,” Joel dug in his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in green tissue paper. “I uhm… Mum and dad got me a knew one for Christmas, and I wanted this one to go to a good home. I know you’ll take care of it.” Joel placed the poorly wrapped bundle next to John’s plate.

“Joel, you didn’t have to. I don’t…”

“It’s nothing, really. I just noticed you didn’t seem to have one. And this one is used. Just… take it, yeah?” Joel nodded.

Very carefully, John pulled the paper loose to reveal the most beautiful gold watch he’d ever seen. “Joel…” John gasped.

“It’s nothing, really. Just promise you’ll take care of it, okay?” 

“Of course. Yes I will.” John nodded with a sniff. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Happy Christmas, mate.”

“You too, Joel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry didn't turn up after all.


	9. Christmas Day, 1993: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note the title of the chapter.
> 
> Cousin Leah makes an appearance.

"William?" A gentle knock and the door opened partially, pale light from the hallway flooded the nearly darkened room. A figure, crumpled face down on the bed, growled, brought an arm up, and buried his face in his elbow, in an effort to block out the offending light. "William... Ah, sorry... Sherlock, is that you?"

"Who else would it be? This _is_ my room." His voice reflected an emotion somewhere between rage and devastation. "The better question is, why are _you_ here?" Sherlock shifted to his side, and drew his knees up to his chest, all the while keeping the crook of his elbow over his eyes. "Well?" He sniffed impatiently.

Cousin Leah stepped into the room. It had been several years since she'd ventured into little Willia... er, Sherlock's room. Gone were _most_ of the toys and all of the childish, brightly colored prints from the walls. In their place were piles of books stacked precariously, the desk was overflowing with what appeared to be a science experiment complete with test tubes and beakers, and a music stand stacked thick with sheet music occupied one corner. A large print of the periodic table of elements was _nailed_ , rather viciously it appeared, to one wall, and another wall was littered with newspaper clippings and other seemingly random scraps of paper. It was all very orderly, after a manner, in a chaotic sort of way.

Clearing her throat, Leah stepped into the room. "I was just... I wanted to see that you're okay. But I can tell..."

"I mistakenly took you for someone with some intelligence," Sherlock snipped. "Obviously I am not _okay."_

Leah glanced around the room once more. The curtains, she thought she remembered light airy blue at one time, were now heavy and black, drawn closed to keep the outside world precisely there. The mattress on the bed was stripped completely bare, and Sherlock lay curled up on top. And perhaps most telling of all, in the center of the room, piled in a haphazard, tangled mess, were more blankets and pillows than Leah imagined any thirteen year old boy would possibly ever need; a strand of still plugged in fairy lights illuminated the pile from within.

“ _Obviously._ ” Leah parroted. Sherlock lifted his arm away from his face just enough to glare at his cousin. She fixed him with an oddly familiar, blue green, appraising stare. Caring little for the unsettling sensation of being read down to his core, Sherlock covered his face once more and turned his back to the unwanted intruder. “May I turn on a lamp?”

“ _No._ Allowing you to do so would imply that I intend to continue this conversation, which might lead you to believe I want you here. And I don’t.” Sherlock grumbled.

“You don’t intend to continue the conversation, or you don’t want me here?” Leah crossed her arms over her chest.

Sitting up suddenly, Sherlock shouted, “Both!”

“Well, that _is_ unfortunate, because I _do_ intend to continue the conversation, and as shocking as it may be, there is nowhere else I would rather be.” Leah smiled sweetly at Sherlock and then turned her attention to the heap of pillows and blankets. She began to systematically stack the pillows and cushions on the desk chair.

“What _are_ you doing? I don’t want you to touch that!” Sherlock jumped up from the bed and pulled a pillow from Leah’s hand.

“It’s not safe to have these fairy lights on while they’re tangled in these blankets. You’ll catch the house on fire.” Leah explained gently. She quickly untangled a fitted sheet from the mess, and thrust it into Sherlock’s hands. “Here, make yourself useful.” 

“I thought you came up here to make me feel better,” Sherlock grumbled as he lazily pulled the sheet over his mattress.

“No, I came to make sure you’re okay. _Not_ the same thing.” Leah smirked and pulled the flat sheet from the pile. “Oh dear God. Really? Have you never done this for yourself? I thought you fancied yourself the cleverest person in the room?” Leah shook her head as she took in the sight of Sherlock struggling with the fitted sheet. She snatched the bedding from him and in a matter of seconds had it stretch into place, and the flat sheet tucked in and smoothed.

“I don’t _fancy_ myself the cleverest, I _am_ the cleverest.” Sherlock huffed. He picked up a thin quilt, his favorite one, and spread it over the mattress.

Leah laughed outright. “Keep telling yourself that.” She shook out the duvet and together they spread it over the bed. “How many of these pillows actually go on your bed?” 

“All of them.” Sherlock shrugged. 

“How do you even sleep like that?” Tossing a pillow at Sherlock’s head, Leah laughed.

“I don’t… Not much.” Scooping up the pile of pillows, Sherlock dropped them all unceremoniously at the head of his bed as Leah folded the remaining blankets. “Too much to think about.” Suddenly sullen once more, Sherlock flopped down on the bed and covered his face with a pillow. 

Moments later Sherlock’s silent contemplation was interrupted by his mattress being jostled. He moved the pillow enough to see Leah finish wrapping the fairy lights on his headboard.

“I always did like these better than a regular lamp anyway.” Leah shrugged. “I had fairy lights all over my room when I was little. Budge over some.”

Incredulous, Sherlock rolled his eyes and budged over a few inches. “So now you’re equating my behavior to that of a six year-old little girl.”

“Not at all.” Leah sat on the bed, her back against the headboard. She picked up a cushion with a skull and crossbones embroidered on the front of it, and smiled fondly as she hugged it to her chest. She had made that pillow herself, when she was eighteen, and pirate loving _William_ was five. “I don’t think you’re behaving childishly at all. I think you’re behaving like anyone in the situation would.”

Sherlock huffed. “I don’t _want_ to respond like everyone else. It’s irksome, and incredibly dull.”

“And yet, here we are.” Leah’s voice had gone soft. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“It’s not _your_ fault. It wasn’t because of you that I wasn’t here.” There was tremor in Sherlock’s voice. He growled to himself at the show of weakness.

“It’s not Myc’s fault either, Sherlock.” Leah whispered.

His breath hitched and Sherlock flipped the pillow covering his face to his chest. “Yes. It is.”

“Sherlo…”

“No, it _is_ his fault. _He’s_ the one who decided to move into a new flat last weekend. It’s because of _him_ that mummy and father dragged me with them to help him move his worthless belongings. He _is_ the reason I was there instead of here, and…” To Leah’s astonishment, her cousin rolled over, wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her side, and sobbed.

“Oh, _William._ It was an accident. That’s all.” Leah couldn’t help the fact that her own eyes grew a little misty.

She’d been apprised of the situation by her uncle, and her heart was truly broken for the boy. It was finally the end of the term, and Mycroft had decided to move to a different, more central flat. Mummy had offered to bring the family to help him move his belongings. They would spend the whole weekend at the new flat, and then Mycroft would return home with them for the remainder of his winter break.

Sherlock had begged to bring Redbeard with him. It was bad enough that he had to leave her for so many hours a day when he went to school, it really was unfair, he’d argued, to leave her for an entire weekend. Mummy had disagreed vehemently, and offered to pay the young couple across the street to lodge and care for Redbeard while they were away. The neighbors had agreed immediately, as they had grown quite fond of watching the adventures had by the beautiful red Irish setter and her quirky young master.

They had only just arrived at Mycroft’s old flat when the call came. Mitch (what sort of name was _Mitch_ anyway; certainly not the sort of name someone who is trustworthy with beloved pets and best friends/sidekicks would have) had opened the front door to fetch the post, and Redbeard had bolted from the house like a flash. She had headed directly for home, and Sherlock, paying little mind to the heavy, late afternoon traffic.

Mitch claimed he was fairly certain Redbeard had felt no pain. Sherlock had it in mind to see if Mitch wanted to test the theory. 

Mitch offered to bury Redbeard for them, so they wouldn’t have to worry with it. Mummy had thanked him for offering, but assured him that they would be returning home immediately to see to the unpleasant task.

Sherlock had crumpled to the floor, and lain there, unresponsive. He had felt very near hysterical, but opted instead to save his tears for the privacy of his own darkened room. He might have actually enjoyed creating a scene loud enough for the neighbors to hear, humiliating Mycroft, and forcing him to feel even the tiniest amount of guilt for his role in this tragedy, but Sherlock knew the only way to get home as quickly as possible, to see with his own eyes, to gather the much needed data he secretly hoped would prove Mitch wrong, was to cooperate with mummy for now.

Mycroft had balked. He argued that he didn’t have much left to move, and it would really only take a few hours. Certainly they could wait until they were done. Redbeard was, after all, only a dog.

_Only a dog._

Sherlock had seethed. His ability to form a coherent thought knocked temporarily offline. In a rage, he lunged after his brother. Father had stopped him before he landed a blow, but by that time, he had found his ability to speak.

“She was my _best friend,_ Mycroft! She loved me no matter what, and I never loved _any_ one as much as I loved her. She’s the only one I _ever_ cared about.” Sherlock nearly spat the venomous words at his brother. His intention was to cause hurt, and he hit his mark. Mycroft, face reflecting the deep wound to his heart, had stormed from the room, and not come back while mummy and Sherlock were still there.

It was agreed upon that mummy and Sherlock would take a cab home, and father would stay to help Mycroft. They would both return home the next day.

The drive home felt as if it lasted an eternity. Sherlock hadn’t even made it to the end of Mycroft’s street before his resolve cracked, and he had wept into mummy’s shoulder. He wept because Redbeard was gone forever. He wept because she really was his best friend. But mostly, he wept because he thought Mycroft, of all people, would have understood the loneliness that had settled in his chest. Instead, Mycroft had been callous and unfeeling.

Mycroft hadn’t offered to come home to help bury Redbeard. It was a hateful task Sherlock would never wish on even his worst enemy. And he wouldn’t have wanted Mycroft’s help. But it would have meant something if he had at least offered.

And when father returned the next afternoon, Mycroft had not come back with him. He had claimed he simply had too much preparation to do in order to be ready to interview for that internship he wanted.

Despite his original anger, Sherlock’s heart was broken all over again. 

Mycroft promised he would be home for Christmas Eve. He’d even asked mummy to tell Sherlock that he’d bring the cocoa. They hadn’t built a fort the two years prior, both feeling they had outgrown the tradition, but it seemed the right thing to do under the circumstances.

Sherlock had carefully constructed the blanket fort, employing a new knot tying technique he was anxious to show off to Mycroft. He’d strung up the fairy lights, and as the evening grew later and later, he’d even changed into his red flannel pyjamas. 

When he awoke curled up on the cold floor just next to the fort, where he had decided to wait for Mycroft, Sherlock decided it wasn’t worth it to let his heart get broken again. If Mycroft didn’t need him, then he didn’t need Mycroft. 

And he’d never have a pet again either.

Sherlock ventured downstairs on Christmas Day only long enough, at mummy’s insistence, to play the piece that was supposed to be a violin and piano duet, something Sherlock had picked for he and Mycroft to play for father. So distracted was he, that Sherlock had actually made two small technical errors while he played. No one but father even recognized the missteps, but it was enough that he had been completely humiliated.

That’s when he’d escaped back to his room, and hoped to be spared any other familial interaction.

But Leah couldn’t just let it go. 

“Sherlock, do you feel as if you’ve lost both Redbeard _and_ Mycroft? Is that what has you so upset?” He sniffed and nodded his head against her side in confirmation. Leah brushed her fingers gently through the boy’s messy, curly hair. “Maybe you could…”

“Please, Leah. I don’t want to talk anymore. It just hurts too much. And I just don’t know. I just… Can’t we please…” Sherlock sat up some then, and rested his head on her shoulder.

“Of course, love.” Leah wrapped her arm around her cousin’s shoulders and brought her hand up to continue petting his soft curls. It was so easy to forget that this 13 year-old with the intellect greater than most grown men was still, at his core, just a child. “For as long as you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH.
> 
> Animal deaths are as traumatic as people deaths sometimes.


	10. Christmas Eve, 1993: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's father gives him a gift.

**CHRISTMAS EVE**

Jonathan Watson was not a sentimental man.

He’d only ever loved one person. _Ailie Ferguson._ She was it for him. The sun and the moon. Flowers weren’t as beautiful, music not as sweet.

And that was all very well in the schoolyard, when one was eight years old. But Ailie grew up, and had loved another. She had spent the summer before university visiting family in Edinburgh. With her working class best friend out of sight, and out of mind, Ailie had fallen for the handsome and brash son of a family friend.

They were a military family, and young James Byrne was on track for his own very illustrious, adventure filled, career. There was a whirlwind courtship, and when Ailie returned to London to attend university in the waning summer, it was to an already furnished flat. She had a ring on her finger, a new surname, and there was a baby on the way.

In her wake, Ailie left behind a world weary Jonathan, who had worked double, even triple shifts, to afford a dingy bedsit, modestly furnished. He had tucked in a desk drawer a worn velvet box, the contents of which were an imperfect gold band and a petite gold band with a tiny, but pure, diamond.

Jonathan, not one to have ever paid much mind to sentiment, kept the rings. Not because he thought _maybe someday,_ but because he had paid for them outright, and he knew he would never get the full cost back if he tried to sell them. He threw himself into manual labor, and when he clocked out for the day, only because he was forced to, he threw himself into a drunken stupor.

Two years later, James Byrne was killed in a training exercise gone disastrously wrong while still on base. Within days, his family had taken back possession of Ailie’s flat, cut off the funds that were financing her studies, and signed away any responsibility to Ailie’s daughter Harriet.

When Jonathan heard about James, he followed Ailie to her grandmother’s house in Edinburgh, and fell easily back into the place of most trusted confidant and friend. He pursued her, no longer out of love, his love for Ailie had long ago been overshadowed by hate for James, but because she was always supposed to be his, and he _would_ reclaim what had once belonged to him.

Ailie acquiesced out of a desperate need to provide for Harriet.

And, it was possible she might have loved Jonathan. Once. Long ago.

A life built on possessive jealousy and desperation was no life. Both Jonathan and Ailie were miserable, she finding solace only in the little girl who looked too much like her real father and the little boy who shared so many of her own features, and Jonathan finding solace in the bottom of a bottle.

No, Jonathan Watson was not a sentimental man.

He pawned the wedding rings when Ailie died. 

When the girl, who favored her biological father so very strikingly in looks, as well as attitude, had admitted she had feelings for another girl, Jonathan had not hesitated in slamming and locking the door in her face.

And the boy. He was beautiful like his mother, and compassionate. He wanted to be a doctor, to help people. And a soldier for the same reason. But no son of Jonathan’s would ever look down on the working class, as if he were their superior. He would beat those fanciful notions out of the child if he had to.

He had certainly tried.

Jonathan Watson, devoid of sentiment, had never given his son a gift, Christmas or otherwise. That he should start when the boy, practically a man, was seventeen years-old, mere months from leaving without looking back, was most definitely not a matter of sentiment.

It was a matter of the most basic physical laws.

That Christmas Eve should be the day the gift was delivered was purely incidental. Jonathan had little control over the delivery date and time.

The boy had been at work all morning. Jonathan had lurked in the flat, waiting for him to return in order to demand money from him. The boy grudgingly handed over a wad of bills.

His son was weak. And that infuriated him. Though he suspected he was never given the full amount that had been earned, which meant the boy was also devious. Perhaps he wasn’t a complete lost cause.

Jonathan hurled insults. The boy stood and took it. He never fought back more than what was necessary to stay alive. 

Father decided to teach his son a lesson of endurance that day.

He screamed obscenities and insults. When that failed to provoke a reaction, Jonathan began slurring revolting observations about the girl. He called her an abomination.

To the shock of both men, his son glared at him and responded, “Oh, learned a new word, did we? I didn’t think you had that ability in you.”

Jonathan roared and lunged, stopped short when the boy landed a solid blow to the side of his head. The two stood staring at each other for what seemed an eternity.

The boy was still small for his age, and clearly underweight. But he was all muscle and tightly wound energy. Jonathan remembered something about rugby. He smirked mockingly at his son. “Finally. Now you fight back?”

“No.” the boy barked. “No more.” Before Jonathan had time to react, the boy had snatched his coat from the nail by the door and was gone.

Jonathan clenched his left hand reflexively and panted for breath.

The man who denied sentiment had little time to think about the fact that it was his own heart that betrayed him, and in so doing had granted his son a truly great gift. 

Freedom.

 

**CHRISTMAS DAY**

In the still dark hours of Christmas morning, John Watson attempted to sneak back into the flat he had sworn to himself he would never return to. He had to go back. He had to get the rest of his cash, mum’s worn copy of “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe,” and the gift he’d bought for Harry three years ago, but had never been able to give her.

In an effort to avoid a potential confrontation, in the rare case Jonathan had decided to sleep in his own bed, John didn’t turn any lights on. Three steps into the flat he stumbled over something solid.

“Oh, bloody hell. What now?” John picked himself up off the floor and turned the overhead light on.

There, sprawled on the floor, eyes hollow and open, jaw slack, clutching his chest, lay Jonathan Watson.

Dead.

John would learn later his heart had just stopped.

He knew he should call 999, but first he dug through his wallet for the number Harry had left for him to call in case of an emergency. She didn’t answer. John didn’t recognize the voice.

“Give her a message, yeah? Tell her it’s all over, it’s safe, and Ish needs her at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good riddance.
> 
>  
> 
> My laptop crashed, so it's after midnight, now on the 11th here in the good 'ole EST. Bah.


	11. Christmas Eve 1996: Mycroft & Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy and father are away on a cruise, so Sherlock has to stay with Mycroft for Christmas. Things are tense. Experiments are done. And apparently Christmas Eve is "take your little brother to work day" at MI6.

Mycroft, indignant, huffed. “William. What…”

“ _Sherlock._ ” Ever the petulant six year-old, Sherlock pouted from his prone state on the floor of the sitting room in his brother’s townhouse.

“That is not your name. Your name is William. You’re practically an adult, you need to behave as such.” Every fiber of Mycroft’s being screamed to revert to his eleven year-old self, and to launch into a good stomp riddled strop.

“Apparently I’m still a _child,_ according to mummy. There is absolutely no other reason she would have sent me here to endure…” Sherlock flapped his hand dismissively at Mycroft. “But as the adult in the room, if you _think_ you can take control of the situation, I certainly invite you to try.”

“You are correct. I _am_ the adult, and this is my home. I must demand this… This…” Mycroft stammered in his frustration, the pitch of his voice reaching a dangerous octave.

“ _Experiment._ ” Sherlock offered with a smirk.

“Fine.” Mycroft snipped. “You must end this untoward _experiment_ immediately. You will not be allowed to continue on this property under these…” He swept his arm broadly around the room “vexatious conditions. And _please,_ open a window, or something.”

Sherlock scoffed. “There is nothing detailed in your mortgage contract, your homeowners insurance policy, nor the agreement you signed with the Homeowners Alliance, prohibiting…”

“ _How_ do you know _that_?” Eleven year-old Mycroft won the internal battle, and manifested in a quick, sharp stomp of his foot.

Tearing his gaze from the crack running the length of the ceiling, Sherlock turned his head just enough to assess his brother’s condition. Despite the momentary lapse of decorum demonstrated by the foot stomp, Mycroft was the very picture of cool detachment. The only exception being his eyes. Grey, typically verging on blue, Mycroft’s eyes gleamed despite having shifted into a darker sort of grey, reminiscent of storm clouds. “You’re angry.”

“I am.” Mycroft strained to keep his voice under control. “Stay out of my files.”

“Get a better locking file system.” Sherlock challenged.

“Learn your place, _boy._ ” He regretted it the moment he said it. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut immediately as he took in the aggrieved expression on his brother’s face. “I… It’s just… You’ve only been here _two hours,_ William. You’ve already broken into my state of the art filing system, reviewed my financials, and somehow managed to occupy my entire sitting room with… 40?”

“38.”

Mycroft nodded. “38 _lit_ and smoldering different varieties of tobacco, in various forms. How did you even… No. Never mind.” He looked around the room. Every single flat surface was occupied by saucers, small bowls, a few larger plates, baking sheets, and so on. perched on top of each dish was a single lit cigarette, cigar, or small pile of pipe tobacco. Every single one was a different brand, and each one had been lit and was burning into ash.

“What is it you’re trying to prove, anyway?” Crouching down, Mycroft flipped over the pack lying near his feet. It was an expensive brand. _His_ brand. He picked them up and stuck the pack in his suit pocket as Sherlock watched him warily.

“I’m creating a tobacco ash index, not that I have to explain _anything_ to you. I’m not trying to prove anything. Other than the fact that you’re a pretentious arse, and that mummy has failed as a parent.” Steepling his fingers under his chin, Sherlock closed his eyes. “And it’s Sherlock, not William.”

“Think of me what you will, _William,_ ” Mycroft’s saccharine smile was more a challenge than an actual smile, Sherlock growled in response, “but this is my home, and you will abide by my rules. And you will _not_ speak of our mother, either of our parents for that matter, with such blatant disrespect.”

“She knows both of us well enough to know that _this,_ ” Without opening his eyes, Sherlock pointed first at Mycroft, and then back at himself, “is a lost cause. And yet she still insisted that it would ‘ _be good for us_ ’ to spend a fortnight together in the enclosed quarters of your dull townhouse while she and father embark upon some sort of ill-conceived geriatric sex holiday. Based on those decisions alone, there is little else to do but call into question her character.”

With a shudder Mycroft cleared his throat. “Our parents are barely middle aged, they most certainly do not fall into the category of _geriatric._ They’ve gone on a cruise with their friends, which is something people _do_ ; they have friends, and they go on holiday with said friends.” He shifted uncomfortably. “And please, never use the words _conceived_ or _sex_ in regards to our parents.”

Sherlock hummed his concession to the point, and then snickered. “Fair enough.” He sat up and drew his knees to his chest. “She did tell you to treat me well for Christmas. It doesn’t look very Christmasy in here.” Sherlock looked around the room to emphasize the lack of holiday decor.

“I live here alone, and find the very idea of the waste of time and resources required to acquire, assemble, arrange, and then eventually have to clean up and store away, holiday decorations to be irksome.” Mycroft paused thoughtfully. “That is, unless _you’d_ like to be in charge of the decorations?”

“Dull.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Your grasp of sarcasm is severely lacking, brother.”

With a shrug of his shoulder, Mycroft stepped carefully over several smoking heaps of tobacco. “I am actually needed at the office for a few hours, and…”

“You’re going to leave?” Incredulous, Sherlock gaped up at his brother. “You’re going to leave. _Typical._ ” He pulled his knees closer to his chest. “It’s just as well. I brought my microscope, I can work on my index. And maybe start a few other experiments.”

“Ah… Ha. No.” Recalling the pricey collection of artwork he had started to build, and the shelves full of first editions and rare reprints in his study, he changed his mind. “You’ll come with me. Snuff these out. You can clean them up later.” Mycroft spun on his heel, completely ignoring the tortured groan from his brother. “We’ll leave in 15 minutes.”

It took 27 minutes for Mycroft to force his brother from the townhouse. Sherlock brooded the entire ride to the office, despite the fact that a mysterious car had been sent for Mycroft.

They turned into an empty parking garage, and drove down several levels. Sherlock watched their progress with interest, though he attempted to appear completely unaffected.

“When we stop, I’ll have to show my identification, and explain who you are. Please be on your best behavior. This is my place of employment.” Mycroft explained matter-of-factly. 

Sherlock sulked. “Give me _some_ credit.”

“Prove to me you deserve it, and it would be my pleasure.” Mycroft fixed him with a haughty glare.

The car stopped in front of a guard stand. The car door was opened, and Mycroft stepped out with practiced ease. Sixteen year-old Sherlock tumbled out, all awkward limbs, as he tried to take in every sight. The guard chuckled, and let them pass. The doors slid open quickly, and shut with a rush of wind behind them. They approached another door with a code pad. Mycroft considered telling Sherlock to turn away, but decided it was pointless, as his brother would be able to memorize the key tones, or would be able to determine the code from the way he took his tea. He opted to just have security change his code later. Despite the small mountain of paperwork required, it really was the easiest of his options.

This set of doors slid open to reveal a lift. Mycroft did not hesitate to enter, so Sherlock followed cautiously. Mycroft pressed the number five, and up they sped. A more efficient lift Sherlock had never seen. When the doors opened Sherlock sighed with disappointment.

“Problem, brother?” Mycroft snarked as he led his brother through the maze of incredibly plain looking office cubicles. 

“I guess I just expected something more…” Sherlock shrugged.

“Impressive?” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. Sherlock nodded sheepishly. “MI6 isn’t all covert operations, spies, and secret missions. Most of the work happens here. The paper trails, the electronic data, the surveillance. It has to be done somewhere. This is the heart of it.” He led the way down a darkened hallway, only a skeleton crew kept on over the holiday, in order to monitor security threats.

Unlocking the door at the end of the hall, Mycroft let Sherlock pass before him. Glancing around, Sherlock spotted the framed photos sitting on a side table. “This is Leah’s office. Why are we in Leah’s office?”

“This is actually the outer office. Her office is through there.” Mycroft nodded to another locked door. He sat at the desk and logged into the computer. 

“ _Wait._ ” Sherlock assessed his brother. “You’re… you’re Leah’s _personal assistant?_ ” He laughed raucously at his brother’s expense. “Ah, God. So much for making it on your own merit, and not on the family name. Let me guess, you have to fetch her tea and call to have her dry cleaning delivered?” 

“I did earn this position by my own merit.” Mycroft was focused on the screen in front of him. He pulled a writable CD from the rack on his desk and loaded it into the computer. Glancing at Sherlock briefly, he added, “I started out as an intern on the third floor.” That obviously meant _something,_ but Mycroft was not inclined to divulge, and Sherlock really wasn’t _that_ interested. 

“And what is the chain of command here?”

“Leah is the head of this division. I am her assistant. She is one of many division heads who answers to father. Father is a director. The directors all answer to…” Mycroft shook a finger at Sherlock. “You almost got me. But if I told you, I’d have to kill you . So... “ He winked at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes in response.

Mycroft burned one more CD, placed both discs into paper sleeves, logged out, and stood to go. “Shall we?”

“I thought…” Sherlock frowned, perplexed.

“A few hours. Yes. I’m not done, but if I don’t get some coffee within the next 20 minutes, terrible things will happen.” Mycroft ushered Sherlock from the office, and locked the door behind him. 

Sherlock noticed that they passed two coffee makers and a vending machine on their way. “Mycroft…”

“Not this swill.” He didn’t even look back to make certain Sherlock followed. He knew his brother well enough to know his interests had been piqued, at least for a little while. They took the lift back down, but instead of exiting through the parking garage, they took another hall, and exited through a non-descript door that opened onto a main thoroughfare. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock grabbed his brother’s arm. “What are we doing?” 

“Coffee.” Mycroft pointed down the street, and then started walking once more. He wrapped his coat more tightly around him, and walked a little more briskly to keep warm against the December wind. “Do keep up, brother.” Sherlock gritted his teeth and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

Three blocks later, Mycroft entered one of those overpriced chain coffee places. “Really? I thought you wanted _good_ coffee.” Sherlock scoffed. 

Casting a sidelong glance, Mycroft stepped to the counter. “I said coffee. I didn’t say _good,_ just not what we had at the office.” The barista took his order, two medium black coffees, house blend.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Mycroft, I don’t…”

“It will be fine.” Mycroft paid, thrust Sherlock’s cup into his hands, and led the way to a small round table near the door. Mycroft sat with his back to the entrance. Sherlock thought that odd. Father _always_ sat where he could see everyone coming and going, and usually in a corner so he could monitor the whole room.

“Mycroft, what are we…”

“I need to tell you something, little brother.” Sherlock was taken aback by the interruption. He motioned for Mycroft to continue, took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. 

“It’s about that Christmas. The one after Redbeard…” Mycroft paused and inspected the lid of his cup.

“The Christmas you abandoned me when I needed you? The one you lied to me? Yeah, I’m aware.” Sherlock growled. “Why? Why now?”

Mycroft glanced around. “I just… I’m sorry about Redbeard, I was then too. It’s just, do you remember the internship I was trying to get?” Sherlock nodded, eyes narrowed in distrust. “It was of course for the internship that ultimately led me to this job.” Mycroft sipped his coffee.

“Father was able to move my interview up, which was why I stayed here when he went home. I got the position, of course, and was asked to start training immediately. Leah had not been promoted yet, and was working in data assessment. I was fortunate enough to be paired with her to train. When they asked her to work over Christmas, I offered to work for her. The task was simple enough, and she had her own children, where I did not.” Mycroft spread his hands out over the table and looked up at Sherlock.

“You could have told me.” Sherlock whispered.

“No, I couldn’t. It turned out we had a legitimate threat to assess, and our involvement was completely classified.” Another sip of the bitter coffee, and Mycroft pushed it to the side.

“You lied to me. You all did. Father. Leah.” Sherlock sniffed, and stared at the floor. “I needed you, My.”

“I know, little brother.”

“I don’t know if I can trust you. It was bad enough when I thought you just didn’t care enough to come home. But now I know the three of you lied to me. Leah, she…” Sherlock shook his head, and schooled his face into a look of cool detachment. “It’s done. Apology accepted. Can we go?” Sherlock avoided eye contact with Mycroft.

“William… _Sherlock,_ I’m sorry. I…”

“Please, can we go, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighed deeply. “Not yet.” He glanced around at the other patrons. “Tell me about… Him.” He nodded in the direction of a middle aged man with a young girl waiting on their order.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. “Fifty-six. Daughter from his second marriage. Six years old. Two dogs. Little yippy ones. Construction worker. Can we go now?”

“That was good, but all obvious. You can do better. Her.” He pointed discreetly at the woman sitting just to his left.

“Why? What are we doing here, Mycroft?”

“Please, Sherlock. Just, tell me about her.” Mycroft pleaded.

With an indignant huff, Sherlock rapidly unraveled the lady’s life. Everything from her vocation, to her deceased husband. The shade of her lipstick to the brand of food she fed her cat that morning. “ _But,_ ” Sherlock paused. “None of that matters nearly as much as the fact that the man you just let lift that CD from your pocket is going to double cross you. He’s got a high bidder waiting on that information, and he is ready to kill anyone who pursues him.” Sherlock stood then and took a step toward the exit.

“Wait.” Mycroft tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve.

“He’s getting away,” the teen hissed.

Mycroft hummed in confirmation. He waited a full two minutes before casually standing to his feet and picking up his coffee cup. He emptied the contents of the cup into the garbage in the store, but he carried the cup with him outside, and dumped it along with the other CD into the bin outside. He led a very perplexed Sherlock down a few blocks and only stopped when the pager in his pocket vibrated. He checked the number, deleted it, and stuck his hand out for a cab. Instead of a cab, the car from earlier pulled up.

“What the _hell,_ Mycroft?” Sherlock shouted once they were safely in the vehicle.

“You, dear brother, just participated in your first field operation for MI6.” Mycroft beamed.

“I… What?” Sherlock’s brow creased in confusion.

“The man who lifted the disc is an agent. He’s undercover, playing the role of someone selling secrets. He’s the best we have, so don’t be alarmed that you couldn’t tell it was an act. You were meant to believe the story. I knew if you fell for it, the men who were following us would too.” Mycroft smiled innocently.

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock turned on the seat in order to stare at his brother. “So you manipulated me into coming with you in the first place? And how did you know we were being followed? I didn’t see _any_ thing!” Eyes wide, Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. “And you just threw that other disc… OH. _Oh!_ The undercover guy was a decoy. He was to draw the men following you away, and then you left the disc for the operative who will deliver it to its intended recipient.”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat. “That was… brilliant. My, that was amazing.” He grinned. “The adrenaline! It’s like _Christmas!_ ”

“Well, technically, Christmas isn’t for a few more hours.” Mycroft made a show of checking his watch. Sherlock laughed outright.

“ _Idiot._ ” They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“You could do this, you know. You’d be very good.” Mycroft spoke softly.

“I know.” Sherlock’s reply was surprisingly not as pretentious as it could have been. “I’ll think about it, okay? Don’t try to push me.”

“Agreed.” Mycroft nodded. He then asked the driver to stop at the next market. Confused, Sherlock looked at him with one eyebrow cocked. “What? I need a few things. There’s nothing for breakfast at my place. We’ll need milk. And I was thinking of getting some fairy lights, and maybe making some hot cocoa later. We could order a takeaway… And, you know… If… If you’re amenable, that is…”

“Mycroft, I’m sixteen years old.”

“I know.” Mycroft shrugged.

“You’re 23… And you just orchestrated a field operation for MI6.”

“All true.”

“And you want to... “ Sherlock huffed, and grinned rather stupidly. “You’re asking me if I want to build a blanket fort on Christmas Eve.”

“Only if you’re amenable.”

“Oh my God.” Sherlock laughed. “Sure, why not?”

The car pulled to a stop in front the store. “Okay, I’ll just be a minute.” Mycroft scrambled out of the car, forgetting to look dignified as he did so.

“Could you see if they have any of those too sweet iced biscuits? With the sprinkles?” Sherlock called after his brother. Mycroft nodded with a smile.

“And My? Thanks for this. For today. Thank you. I’m still… Hurt. But...”

“I know.”

“But today. Today was good.”

“Happy Christmas, little brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys had a good day, but this wasn't a quick fix. There's still the matter of the hurt and lies, and more angst to come.


	12. Winter Break, 1996: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Friendship multiplies joys and divides sorrow." ~Chinese Proverb_  
>   
> 
> John is spending winter break on campus. For the third year in a row.
> 
> This is a long chapter, but it's all fluff. All of it. Except that one little whump, but it's tiny. I promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to split this into multiple chapters, but then I got behind, so here it is in one lump post.
> 
>  
> 
> AND, because [Dodoa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dodoa/pseuds/Dodoa) mentioned it, and it was a _BRILLIANT_ idea, here's a YouTube [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLyErfQifJVP6fx9CocF0GWdIMkLLyHL6t) to go along with this chapter... If you're into that kind of thing. ♡♡♡

**Thursday, 19 December – Moving In Day**

John dropped the over full gym bag on the floor with a lazy thud and scanned the tiny room. Smaller than his actual residence hall room, it would have to do.

When he started university he had tried to convince Harry to move back into the flat they’d grown up in, so she’d have a steady place to stay, and there would be a place for John to “go home” to. That arrangement lasted for two months, until the landlord raised a fuss about rent not being paid, and had posted an eviction notice. With all of his resources being needed for school, there was nothing John could do to retain their home. 

So, he stayed at school. 

For the third Christmas in a row, John had opted to stay on campus over winter break. Harry was… unreliable… in having a _safe_ place to stay. There wasn’t any other family to turn to, and John didn’t want to impose on his friends.

Not many students opted to stay on campus over break. The majority of those who did were international students who had no way to travel home. Since there were so few, for safety purposes, they were all transplanted to a temporary residence hall. 

For the third year in a row, John had completed his exams, crammed the bare necessities into his gym bag and backpack, pulled all the bedding from his bed, and trudged across campus. He plastered on a smile and chose the most likely path to afford being able to avoid the pitying glances of his friends and classmates.

The previous two years John had been fortunate enough to have a room to himself, and he hadn’t been notified of having a roommate this year either. John preferred the solitude; he was completely exhausted from the stress and sleep deprivation of exams. He relished the idea of two whole uninterrupted weeks of sleep. 

John made his bed quickly, and dumped his belongings in a drawer. He really didn’t have the energy to hang anything up. “Shower,” he mumbled as he gathered up his wash kit and a clean set of clothes. “Oi. First year residence is the worst,” John griped as he realized the shared bathroom for the floor was down the hall. 

The shower stall seemed clean enough and the water pressure was… adequate. “Doesn’t matter. Just need sleep.” John powered through the shower and dressed quickly. Thankful that it seemed most of the rooms on the floor were unoccupied, he made his way to his room. Turning the doorknob, John groaned.

Locked.

His keys were in his jacket pocket.

“Oh my God. Why.” John groaned. He tried the doorknob once more, a little more forcefully. When that didn’t work, he let his head fall forward and banged his forehead on the door loudly. With a sigh, he considered his options; hopefully the maintenance guys hadn’t left.

Just as John moved to stand upright, his door was flung open from the inside, sending him sprawling forward and crashing into… someone…

“Oh! Sorry mate!” the mystery person stopped John from hitting the ground, and helped him stand upright.

“No… no, sorry. I must’ve got to… the wrong… room…” John looked around the small room. Nope. That was definitely his blanket and pillow. His jacket (with the missing keys) thrown over the desk. “Ah. Sorry, wasn’t expecting to have a roommate.” John rubbed the back of his neck and looked the man standing in front of him up and down. 

Man? Definitely a kid. Probably first year. Light brown hair, messy, styled that way on purpose. Glasses. Superhero t-shirt. Nondescript denims. Taller than John by about five inches, slight athletic build, but definitely not an athlete.

“So… Sorry.” John cleared his throat and put his hand out. “I’m…”

“John Watson!” The kid shook John’s hand enthusiastically. 

“I’m sorry… Have we met?” John blinked in surprise.

“Well, yes. But not really. Oh my God, I can’t believe _you’re_ my roommate. You’re a _legend,_ did you know? You passed Professor Kirk’s impossible to pass first year med studies assessment. Only one of three to ever pass it on the first day of class. And with a near perfect score too. He had you come to our class and talk about study skills. I shook your hand that day too. Oh my God. The guys are _not_ going to believe this.” The other man was nearly vibrating.

John chuckled nervously. “Yeah… That’s me.” He took a step back and sat his armful of stuff on the desk. Checking his jacket, John retrieved his keys and turned around. “Forgot my keys.” He shrugged.

“Heh.” John’s new roommate grinned stupidly at him.

“Right. We’ve established I’m John Watson, and that I’m bloody brilliant. That makes you…” John grabbed his worn copy of “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe” and an apple he had swiped at lunch earlier, and flopped down onto his bed. He crossed his legs in front of him and leaned back against the wall.

“Ah… Sorry, right. I’m Matt. Matt MacGregor. First year med. I…” Matt stumbled to his bed, and sat down, imitating John’s posture. “I… Am decidedly _not_ bloody brilliant.” Matt averted his eyes. John laughed outright.

“Nice to meet you, Matt MacGregor. So, why are _you_ trapped in holiday purgatory?” John wiped the apple on his shirt and toyed with the stem.

“Family’s travelling for the holidays. Girlfriend’s at school in the States. You?” Matt leaned forward eagerly. “Research? Independent study?”

John choked on a bite of apple. “No. Nothing so noble. Nowhere else to go.” He shrugged, but left it at that. He’d known this kid all of ten minutes and would be living in close quarters for two weeks. No need to scare him off. “I stay every year.”

“Wow. So… What’s there to do?” Matt drew his knees up toward his chest. 

_Great. Nervous energy._ John groaned internally. “Ah, not much, really. I mostly sleep. I may look like I’m functioning right now, but my brain officially shut down around 2:30 this morning.”

Matt laughed entirely too hard at that. “I get it.” He seemed to notice for the first time that John was wearing pyjamas. “Oh, God. Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“No need to apologize,” John laughed. “But I think I am going to sleep for a few hours… Or days. Not sure yet. Don’t worry about the lights, or anything. I can sleep through it all.” He dropped the apple core in the bin and stretched out on the bed, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow. 

“Well… see ya on the other side,” Matt chuckled.

John hummed in agreement. He heard Mat rummaging around the room. Making his bed. Mumbling to himself. John was very certain he heard his own name being mumbled. He shook his head and willed himself to sleep.

The door slamming jarred John awake with a gasp -- the rude awakening eliciting memories of long ago. John blinked a few times, and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Sorry… Sorry,” Matt half whispered. 

“What time is it?” John groaned as he sat up and stretched.

“7:15 PM. On Tuesday. Happy Christmas Eve!” Matt smiled cheerfully.

“What?” John, suddenly wide awake looked around once more.

“Oh, God.” Matt, who had dropped into one of the desk chairs, nearly doubled over in laughter.

“Ah, he’s got jokes.” John rubbed his eyes again and laughed. “So it’s still Thursday, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Matt nodded. “I, uh… I went down to eat, and thought you might want something. I didn’t know what though, so…” He slipped his backpack off and began unloading a random variety of items.

“So you brought _everything?_ Oh my God. Is that a whole loaf of bread?” John laughed and stood up from his bed. He inspected an individual packet of peanut butter and shrugged. “Thanks, Matt. That was incredibly decent of you, mate.” John made a peanut butter sandwich, grabbed a banana and sat on the floor. 

John would have been satisfied to eat in silence and then sleep through the night. He could tell, however, that Matt wanted to talk. Wanted to get to know him. 

Wanted to be his friend.

John shuddered when he considered the ramifications, and then smiled to himself. When did he become a cranky old man? “Well, Matt…”

At the same moment, with his head ducked, Matt blurted out, “How’d you do it?”

“Sorry?” John cocked an eyebrow.

“The impossible test. How’d you pass it?” Matt sat cross legged on the floor across from John.

“Ah. Well, that’s simple.” John smiled warmly. “Everyone around here seems to think I’m this popular, outgoing guy, but really, I’m very private, hate being the center of attention, and very boring…” 

“You’re the captain of the rugby team!” Matt interjected.

“Well, there’s that. But I have bad days, and that just helps me get the aggression out.” John winked. “I’m really very boring. And the proof of that is this.” John reached into his bag, which he’d left in the middle of the room, and pulled out a worn and ragged copy of “Gray’s Anatomy.”

“Uhm, we all have one of those, mate. I mean, mine’s a little nicer than that… God, is that what it’s going to look like in three years?” Matt gulped, eyes wide.

John huffed a laugh. “Close, but no. I have another copy that I bought when I came here. No, this one,” John ran his fingers over the cover gingerly. “My sister gave this to me for Christmas when I was ten. It was an old edition even then, but she knew I wanted to be a doctor. Made me promise to study it every day. So… I did.” John shrugged.

“You really _are_ an overachiever!” Matt laughed. “Wow, exciting Christmas that must have been, giving a ten year old a text book.” 

“Eh, yeah. We uhm…” John cleared his throat. “Christmas wasn’t a huge deal at my house.”

“What?” Matt was incredulous. “No big yearly traditions?”

“No, nothing.” John shifted uncomfortably. “No caroling, no parties, most years not even a tree.”

“Oh my God, mate. I know what we’re going to do over break.” Matt leapt to his feet and pulled a notepad and pen from his backpack. John eyed him warily. “We’re going to do Christmas.”

“Do. Christmas. What… What does that even mean?” John pulled himself up onto his bed.

“I’m going to make a list of all the things my family does around this time of year, and we’re going to do them all. It’ll be different, but it’s okay. We’ll get as many people to participate as possible. This is going to be the best ever.” Matt was scribbling furiously now.

“I suppose it’s too late to convince you I don’t celebrate Christmas?” John smirked. Matt didn’t respond, he was entirely absorbed in his list making. “Okay, well, I guess I better get some more sleep if we’re going to ‘do Christmas’ instead of lying around like bums for the next two weeks.”

Matt waved him off and mumbled, “G’night. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait.” John rolled his eyes, and pulled his blanket over his head.

 

**Friday, 20 December – Christmas Caroling**

John woke slowly and stretched. It took him a minute to recall where he was and he froze, hoping he could pretend to be asleep for a little while longer without being noticed.

“Oh good, you’re awake! You weren’t kidding about being exhausted, huh? It’s after noon now. I grabbed a few more things when I went to breakfast this morning, if you’re hungry. Oh, and the maintenance guy let me into my other room, so I could get my electric kettle and things, so if you want tea…” Matt gushed.

“Tea. Tea would be fantastic,” John interrupted. 

“On it!” Sprinting from the room, Matt filled the kettle in the shared kitchenette just across the hall, and came right back. He plugged the kettle in, and prepared a mug with a tea bag. “No milk, but I have the powdered stuff. And sugar.”

“No thanks. Plain is fine.” John stood and stretched. He inspected the heap of food on Matt’s desk and laughed. “No one said anything to you about this?”

“Nah. I’m incredibly charming; I get away with a lot.” Matt grinned.

John laughed. “Well, all right.” He picked a blueberry bagel and accepted the mug from Matt. “So.” John sat back down on his bed and took a long drink of his tea. “How does one ‘do Christmas,’ according to Matt MacGregor?”

“We’ve got twelve days between now and New Year’s Eve. We’re going to do one tradition each day.” Matt practically bounced as he spoke.

“Twelve… Like the song, right?” John took another drink of his tea to cover his grimace.

“Exactly! Speaking of which…”

“No. Nononono. I can’t sing.” John shook his head.

“We have to go caroling! It’s basically a requirement to celebrate properly! And you don’t have to be good, you just have fun!” With a grin, Matt folded his hands and pretended to beg. “Please John? It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“You do realize most of the people who are still here don’t celebrate Christmas, right? We’re definitely the minority here.” Tearing a chunk off his bagel, John scrambled for any excuse possible to get out of Matt’s plan. 

Matt thought about that for a moment. “No problem. I’ll figure this out. You get ready.” He pulled out his notebook and began scribbling away again.

With a sigh, John stood from his bed, gathered his things and headed off to the bathroom. “John?” Matt called after him without looking up.

“Yeah?” John turned back hopefully.

“Don’t forget your keys. You’re not getting out of this.” Matt grinned.

John sighed again. “Right. Thanks.”

Twenty minutes later, Matt dragged John down to the first floor of the residence hall. “Here, wear these.” He thrust a scarf and a pair of mittens into John’s hands. 

“Have you lost your mind? We’re staying inside!” John laughed.

Pulling a knit cap with a fluffy ball on top over his styled hair, Matt tsk’d. “We’re caroling John. It’s part of the whole thing.” He wrapped a striped scarf around his own neck. “Go on, then.” John shook his head in disbelief, but tied the red scarf around his neck and stuffed his hands into the mittens.

Holding his hands up in surrender, John shrugged. “Now what?”

“Now, we sing! You like the Beatles?”

“What?” John laughed. “Well, yeah, I do, but…”

Before John had a chance to make a run for it, Matt grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him to the end of the hall. He started belting out “Hey Jude,” and knocked loudly on the first door. 

“Wait… Wait… What are you doing, you idiot?” John laughed nervously.

“Caroling!” Matt hissed. “C’mon!”

John scrubbed one mittened hand over his face and shook his head. “Sure. Why not.” John started out softly, but Matt elbowed him in the side, and he laughed and started singing at the top of his lungs. 

The person on the other side of the door banged back and shouted at them to go away. The two shrugged and moved to the next room. By the third door, John was giggling uncontrollably and struggling to sing along. They did “Yellow Submarine,” “Help,” and had just started a rather moving rendition of “Eleanor Rigby” when someone finally opened a door.

“What are you idiots doing?” The sixth door banged open, and the girl standing in the room glared at them. John stuttered, but Matt just kept singing. Stunned, the girl stood there staring until John and Matt finished the song.

“We’re caroling!” Matt took a bow. 

“Caroling?” The girl snorted. “I’ve never heard _that_ Christmas song before.” She looked them up and down, and turned to John. “Nice mittens.” 

He raised his hand and waved. 

“So really, what do you two freaks want?”

“Nothing!” Matt laughed. “John here’s never been caroling, so we’re caroling.”

“But, that’s not a carol!” The girl finally laughed

“John was worried that not everyone would celebrate Christmas, so we’re compromising. Everybody loves the Beatles.” Matt reached up and adjusted his hat.

“Smart.” The girl looked at John, “I’m Hadassah, everyone calls me Essie. I’m Jewish, so Hanukkah for me.”

“I’m Matt, and I already introduced John,” he took another quick bow.

“Yeah, I’m brilliant, and he’s charming.” John deadpanned. Matt laughed convulsively and fell on the floor.

“Essie! Make ‘em go ‘way!” Someone from inside the room shouted.

“That,” Essie pointed behind her, “is Isabelle. Izzy for short. She’s agnostic, and chooses not to celebrate Christmas.”

“Interesting pairing.” John nodded.

“We make it work,” Izzy approached the door and wrapped her arms around Essie.

Pulling himself up from the floor, Matt waved his hand. “Guess we know why you guys didn’t go home for the break.”

“Oh my God, Matt.” John buried his face in his mittens. “You can’t just…”

“No, he’s right.” Essie frowned and leaned back into Izzy.

“It’s a good thing you’re charming, otherwise, I might have to smack you,” Izzy looked at Matt, and winked. “So, how ‘bout it, Essie. You wanna go caroling with these idiots?”

“Really?” Matt clapped his hands excitedly.

“ _What?_ ” John nearly choked in surprise.

Essie squealed. “Yes! Let me get my scarf. And I’ll wear mittens too, like John. Izzy, wear that penguin hat!” The two girls giggled as they got ready.

“What the hell just happened?” John tried to scratch the back of his neck with his mittened hand.

“Peace on Earth, good will toward man, John. That’s what happened.” Matt had assumed a very serious expression, but his eyes glistened with joy.

“Idiot.” John laughed. “What song’s next?”

“You guys know ‘Here Comes The Sun’?” Izzy asked as Essie locked their door behind them.

 

**Saturday, 21 December – Christmas Baking**

“This isn’t right. Nothing about this is right!” John inspected the gingerbread men shaped items on the baking sheet. He looked up at Matt and couldn’t help laughing. “You look ridiculous! You’ve got flour…” He waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Everywhere!”

“You’re one to talk.” Matt snapped, clearly frustrated. “I don’t understand. Mum and I make these same ones every year. I followed the recipe exactly!”

“Here, let me see it,” John stuck his hand out.

Tapping his head, Matt grinned. “It’s all up here.”

Rolling his eyes, John dropped the tray on the countertop in front of Matt. “Well, now we have eight dozen gingerbread men that will kill anyone who tries to eat them. I say we bin them, and call it a day.”

“No! No, you _have_ to have the whole experience. The baking and decorating. The sharing with friends. The eating .” Matt picked up a biscuit and tried unsuccessfully to bite into it. “Maybe if we just put frosting on it…”

“No! Absolutely not!” John smacked the gingerbread man from Matt’s hand, sending it careening across the room just as one of the guys from down the hall walked through the door. He ducked just as the deadly treat shattered on the doorjamb. “Oh God, sorry Sanjay! You okay?” John brushed biscuit dust off Sanjay’s shoulder.

“What are you two up to today?” Sanjay from India, and his roommate, Nathan from the States, had thought the caroling was brilliant, and after every room had been serenaded (welcomed or not), Nate had made them all hot cocoa.

“Gingerbread men,” Matt slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. “But they’re all hard as rocks.”

“Deadly projectiles.” John added. “Projectiles that we are _not_ handing out to people.”

Sanjay grinned deviously. “I have an idea. Meet Nate and me on the roof in 15 minutes. Bring _all_ of the biscuits.” He dashed from the kitchenette, leaving Matt and John to clean up their mess.

Twenty minutes later four grown men stood on the roof of their residence hall, giggling like school girls. 

“ _Brilliant._ Absolutely bloody brilliant, Sanj.” John laughed as he lined up another shot.

Sanjay, studying engineering, had been working on a design for a couple of giant slingshot looking devices. No real application, but just for fun. The problem was, he hadn’t found any good ammunition. 

Until now.

Matt lined up his shot and Nate yelled, “Pull!” John launched his gingerbread man first, and Matt released his immediately after. The two collided, and exploded in a puff of dust. The four men screamed and cheered.

“Okay, you were right, baking is worth it,” John laughed.

 

**Sunday, 22 December – Stringing Popcorn Garlands**

John didn’t even try to conceal his frustration as he cursed. “Why? Why would anyone do this?”

“And here all the rumors say you’re such a perfect gentleman, John Watson. I’m feeling very disillusioned right now.” Izzy laughed. John threw a handful of popcorn at her.

“Don’t waste it!” Matt shouted, and threw another handful in John’s direction.

“Seriously, though. Matt, you really do this nonsense?” Nate groaned.

“Don’t listen to them, Matt. I think it’s lovely.” Essie smiled sweetly. 

“I am a fourth year engineering student, and I can’t seem to master the mechanics of threading a needle.” Sanjay wailed. John snorted, and did it for him.

They had spent the entire afternoon making popcorn garlands. And eating more popcorn than they actually strung. Twice they’d had to pop more, because Matt insisted that two garland strands was simply not enough.

Not a single one of them escaped the needle pricks unscathed, and John was glad for the first aid kit he found in the kitchen.

“Okay, that’s all the popcorn.” Matt stood and gathered up several garlands. “Grab your coats and meet out front.”

“This was something my mum did when she was little,” Matt had explained. “Her mum always strung popcorn to hang on their Christmas tree. Once Christmas was over, they would hang the garlands on the trees outside for the birds and animals to eat.”

Once they had decorated the two small pine trees out front of their residence hall, the friends stood back and admired their work. 

“Beautiful!” Essie whispered.

“I feel like we should sing a carol or something,” Nate laughed.

John sniffed, looked around at these new friends, and smiled. So softly they almost didn’t hear him, he began singing “Yesterday.” Matt elbowed him in the side and joined in. One by one the others sang along.

 

**Monday, 23 December – Giving to the Community**

“You have money for the bus?” Matt tossed John his coat.

“Yeah. Why?” Eyeing his roommate warily, John slipped his arm into the jacket.

“Just trust me.” Matt shoved John from their room and locked the door.

“Famous last words,” mumbled John.

The bus trip took only twenty minutes, but John had no idea where they were. He turned to ask Matt, but his friend was already trotting off down the sidewalk, as if he were on a mission. John jogged to catch up with him.

“What is this place?” John asked when Matt stopped short in front a small store front building. He pointed at a sign above the door that read _COMMUNITY OUTREACH._

“It’s a soup kitchen. I called them and asked if they needed any help. They said lunch time is their busiest time.” Matt shrugged, looking uncertain.

“This is brilliant, mate.” With a grin, John grabbed Matt by the arm, and pulled him through the front door.

 

**Tuesday, 24 December – Family Meal**

Essie and Izzy had strung a few strands of white fairy lights in the little common area at the end of their hall, and spread a quilt out on the floor. “It’s beautiful, ladies.” Matt sighed with contentment as he set about emptying his back pack.

“I hope everyone likes peanut butter sandwiches and fruit,” John laughed.

“Where did all of this come from?” Eyeing the odd selection, Sanjay sat on his knees.

“This one” Pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, Matt indicated John, “Hasn’t been to the dining hall _once_ since break started. Couldn’t let the illustrious John Watson die of starvation, now could I?”

Everyone laughed, and John put his hands up in defeat. “In my defense, I _did_ warn you that last year and the year before, all I did when I stayed was sleep. _And,_ when you brought food back to the room the very first day, well, you showed your hand early, didn’t you?” 

There was laughter all around once more, except for Essie, who had taken a seat on the floor next to Sanjay. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “John… is this your third Christmas away from your family?” The question was asked softly, but it brought the laughter to an abrupt halt. 

All eyes turned to John, who happened to be the only one still standing.

Rubbing the back of his neck, John cleared his throat. “Uhm, yeah. Oh God, how much do I want to scare you all away” John chuckled nervously. “Well, mum died when I was nine. Abusive father died when I was seventeen. Alcoholic sister is God knows where. So… yeah. Nowhere else to go.”

Matt and Nate both cursed softly. Matt looked up at John, brow creased, sympathetic anger burning in his eyes. Sanjay stared in surprise, working his jaw, but not sure what to say. Izzy and Essie exchanged a look, and were up in an instant, surrounding him with a hug.

“So when you said you didn’t really have any Christmas traditions…” Matt stood slowly.

“With the exception of the fairly typical drunken rages provided by my father, no, we didn’t have any traditions. Nothing to celebrate, really. No Birthdays, no awards ceremonies, nothing like that.” John shrugged, and chuckled. “But I could get use to this kind of celebration,” he put one arm around Izzy and the other around Essie, and grinned rakishly.

“Oi! Cheeky.” Izzy playfully smacked his face as Essie pulled him over to sit next to her on the floor.

“John… I don’t…” Matt still stood, hands hanging to his sides. “I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t know…”

“You didn’t know because I didn’t tell you, Matt. C’mon, sit down. And don’t look at me like that, I’ve been here three years, and you guys,” gesturing around the circle, John smiled, “are the only ones I’ve ever told.“ John leaned forward and reached into the pile of food to retrieve a plain bagel and packets of peanut butter and strawberry jam. “So, we gonna eat, or what?”

“Wait…” Essie pulled him back to sitting. “Why, John?”

“Because I’m starving?” John shoved a too large bite of dry bagel in his mouth in the hopes of avoiding more questioning.

“Uhm,” Sanjay cleared his throat. “John, I think she’s asking, _why us?_ Why would you tell us?” Essie nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, I mean, we’ve only known each other a few days, and after this, who knows if we’ll even see each other again. I’m going back to the States after this year is up.” Shifting his position on the floor, Nate ducked his head to avoid eye contact. Izzy pulled him into an awkward side hug.

“Well,” rubbing the back of his neck, John looked around the circle. “This _is_ supposed to be a Christmas Eve _family dinner,_ yeah? Looks to me like I’m sitting here with the only family I have at the moment, and if you can’t tell your deepest, darkest secrets to family, who can you tell them to?” A crimson blush spread over John’s face.

“Dear God,” Matt gasped dramatically, having recovered his sense of humor. “And here I thought I was going to teach _you_ how to do Christmas. Deep, dark secrets being revealed at dinner is the _most_ time honored of all the time honored traditions.”

“It’s true,” Izzy laughed. “It transcends generations, religious and political beliefs, everything.” The others all nodded in agreement.

“So, what comes next then?” John laughed.

“Well, if memory serves,” Matt drummed his fingers on his chin, as if in deep thought, “there’s either supposed to be a screaming match, or a lot of hugging.” Matt shrugged, “seems to me you’ve probably had enough of the fighting, so that only leaves one thing…”

“Oh God.” John slowly began scooting back from the group. “No. Please…”

“ _Dog pile!_ ” Nate shouted as Matt launched himself across the quilt at John, resulting in a massive heap of entirely too many knees and elbows, a lot of cursing and name calling, and uncontrollable giggling.

“Are you _trying_ to kill me?” gasping for air from the bottom of the jumble (which rivaled any scrum he’d ever lined up for), John tried unsuccessfully to squirm his way free. “Happy Christmas, or whatever the hell _this_ is, guys.” 

 

**Wednesday, 25 December – Giving Gifts**

The family dinner quickly devolved into an impromptu food fight. Tired out from laughing and rough housing, the little makeshift family spent the subsequent hours sprawled out on the floor sharing stories and secrets.

For all the times John had poured his heart out to Harry as a child, he never knew family held the potential to be so heart achingly open and forgiving. It was simultaneously the most beautiful and the most overwhelming evening of John’s life.

It was just after three in the morning when the friends cleaned up the destruction left from their dinner and had all headed to their own rooms. John stood in the middle of his room, staring at nothing in particular, considering the events of the evening when his thoughts were interrupted.

“Ready?” With a grin Matt pulled two large shopping bag from the closet.

“Yes!” John grinned enthusiastically, his contemplative mood quickly gave way to childlike excitement. “I’ve never been able to do something like this before.”

“C’mon then. But be quiet!” Matt whispered. He handed John one of the bags and led the way into the hall. 

After they had gone to work at the community outreach center, Matt suggested they stop at the second-hand shop across the street. As they perused the shelves, an idea solidified, and the two quickly counted out their available funds.

They’d found out which rooms were occupied, and by how many people, while caroling. Using their limited allowance, the friends picked a large variety of items, one for each of their hall-mates. They’d found super hero and soldier action figures, model cars and trains, stuffed animals of all kinds, jump ropes, a few rubik’s cubes, and an assortment of other games and toys. Not to mention a few specific items for their new friends.

And John had no idea why, but Matt purchased a dozen neck ties, all in varying degrees of hideousness. “You’ll see,” Matt had laughed and let it go.

When the shop proprietor questioned them about what they were up to, she smiled warmly and went a bit misty in the eyes. When she told them their balance due, which was less by half than what they’d figured, they had tried to argue with her. “I’ll have none of that!” She’d declared. “You two boys are absolutely precious, and this is my gift to you. What you’re doing is lovely, and I want to help.”

They quickly set about their task, propping toys, adorned by bows supplied by the owner of the shop, against each door. For Sanjay and Nate they left a set of toy dart guns, with an abundance of foam ammunition (John and Matt had bought a set for themselves as well). For Essie they left a small teddy bear, but around its neck was a small silver necklace with a pendant that read _courageous._ For Izzy, to his utter amazement, John had quite accidentally found “Abbey Road” on CD -- the case was cracked, but the CD was scratch free.

They collapsed onto their beds and shared a few moments of companionable silence.

“Here.” John sat up and handed Matt a simply wrapped gift. “It’s not much… But, it’s my favorite. It’s…” John stammered and rolled his eyes. “Just open it.”

Matt unceremoniously ripped off the paper, and found a slightly worn, but otherwise lovely hardback edition of “The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.” Matt grinned. “My mum read this to me when I was little, but I never had my own copy. I love it. Thanks, mate.” Matt rolled off his bed and retrieved a messy bundle from his desk drawer. “Sorry about the wrapping…”

John took the bundle and laughed as the paper practically fell off on its own accord. It was a mug. He turned it over to reveal the RAMC logo printed there. He gasped and looked up at Matt.

“I think going into the army is… incredibly stupid.” Matt blushed, and John huffed a laugh. “But I get it. Especially now that I know… things. And… well, I think you’re probably the bravest, strongest person I’ve ever met. God, John. Everything…” Matt shook his head. “Sorry, just, you _really are_ bloody brilliant, and you’ve not just tolerated my crazy the past few days, but embraced and encouraged it. I just, really respect you… and…”

“And you’re my biggest fan, and can’t we please, oh please, be best friends for ever?” John laughed with a wink. 

Matt laughed and dropped down onto his own bed. “Yeah, something like that.”

“You’re stuck with me now, Matt.” John grinned and raised his new mug. “Cheers, mate.”

“Happy Christmas, John.”

 

**Thursday, 26 December – The Nutcracker**

None of them had ever seen “The Nutcracker.” Matt had come the closest, as his mum watched it on the telly every year, but he had lost interest after the first few minutes the first time he tried to watch it, and had never tried again.

“It’s a ballet,” offered Essie with a shrug.

“I’m out!” Nate turned to leave. Matt and Sanjay pulled him back.

“What’s the story?” John asked.

“Well, I remember there’s a girl, and she gets a toy soldier as a gift. And then there’s something about the toy soldier fighting a battle against a giant rat and his army. There might be a princess or fairy or something too.” Matt scrunched up his face.

“John should be the soldier,” Essie nodded resolutely. He shrugged in response.

“And Essie’s the princess,” Izzy smiled sweetly and kissed her cheek. The boys simultaneously made gagging noises.

“I still don’t get it.” Nate shook his head.

“It’s a thing that people do. It’s tradition, so we have to! We’ll just… Make it up as we go along. Izzy, you be the girl. Nate, you wanna be the rat king? Sanjay and I will be your army.” Matt pulled out his toy dart gun.

“Wait. Wait just a minute.” Izzy put up her hands and laughed. “So, this is basically your excuse to launch a Nerf war?” Matt blinked innocently. “Of course it is. Whatever.” She shook her head.

“There’s dancing too… You girls like that, right?” Matt winked. “You both get to dance with golden boy, how’s that?”

“Not gonna happen,” John turned and dashed from the common area. He made it to the stairwell before the rat king and his minions caught up and dragged him back, kicking and cursing.

“You will dance with my girlfriend, and you will like it,” Essie had assumed her princess-fairy-whatever persona, and stood before John with her hands on her hips. She stomped once to punctuate her point. 

“Yes, _your majesty,_ ” John mumbled in abject obedience.

They didn’t know what music was appropriate, so Izzy started singing “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds,” and everyone thought that was brilliant, so they let her sing it sweet and clear as she and Toy Soldier John spun, stumbled, and giggled around the room. 

As soon as the dance ended, before either could regain their equilibrium, the rat king’s army descended and captured Izzy away from John, pulling her behind two sofas they’d pushed together. John ducked behind an armchair as a volley of foam darts rained down on him. He fired back, but was quickly running out of ammunition.

Essie crawled up beside him. “You have to save her!” She commanded.

“I’m a little outnumbered here, if you can’t tell…” John grunted as he fired a few rounds and then dropped back behind the chair.

“You’re the soldier, come up with a plan!”

“I’m thinking!” John hissed as a dart just barely missed him. “Listen to those idiots carrying on over there. All we need is a good… Oh! I know what to do!”

“What?” Essie clapped her hands with excitement.

“A distraction.” John checked his gun. All he needed was three rounds. “This is a ballet, and you are an enchanted… whatever… after all. Just, follow my lead, okay?” With that John started singing “All You Need is Love.”

Essie covered her mouth with her hands and giggled. John motioned to her, and she started singing along. After a few moments, the enemy ceased their attack.

“What is this sorcery?” Cried the rat king. 

John looked over the armchair and saw the rat army looking back at him. He held out his hand to Essie, and they stood slowly, and began to dance along to their singing, twirling out to the middle of the battle field. Sanjay broke character and laughed outright, but Nate and Matt maintained their fierce glares. John and Essie sang at the top of their lungs, and twirled nearer enemy lines. At the last moment, John pulled his gun out, and mid-twirl fired three darts directly at the foreheads of the three rats.

There was stunned silence for a moment, and then the three slaughtered rats and the captive Izzy stood to their feet and cheered. Grinning broadly, John and Essie took their bow.

 

**Friday, 27 December – Christmas Film Night**

“They don’t _have_ to be holiday themed films,” Matt assured the group. “I know not everyone likes them. But we always had a night where we would marathon watch Christmas films. It’s fun. And I swiped a bunch of biscuits from the dining hall, since ours didn’t turn out.”

“A film night sounds fun. I vote for The Princess Bride! I’ve got it in the room!” Essie grinned.

“Anybody have any Monty Python?” Matt asked.

“Life of Brian or Holy Grail? I’ve got both,” Nate offered.

“Both!” John and Izzy cried in unison.

“I haven’t seen any of those,” Sanjay shrugged. The group gasped in amazement. “I guess I’m getting an education this evening.” He laughed. “I do have a copy of Psycho though.”

“Oh my God, yes! I haven’t seen that in forever!” Matt clapped Sanjay on the back.

“Those are all great, but I actually do have a Christmas film I think we ought to start the evening off with. It’s actually one of my favorites ever.” John spoke softly, commanding control of the room.

“Yeah... Of course. Sure thing, John.” Matt stammered at the sudden change in John’s tone. John stood to walk to their room, and the others watched him in silence. He was back in a moment, and was careful to keep the title hidden.

“Thanks guys. This means a lot. If you haven’t seen it, I’m sure you’ll like it.” He smiled sheepishly as he queued the video up and pushed play.

Matt figured it out first and burst out laughing. “You git! You really had us going there! Die Hard? _Die Hard_ is your go-to, sentimental Christmas film?” He threw a cushion at John’s head.

John ducked with a laugh. “Yippee ki yay…”

 

**Saturday, 28 December - The Christmas Story**

John lay on the floor, reading aloud from his copy of “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.” His new found friends lounged about the common area, lazy and content, sipping away at tea and cocoa. He turned down the corner of the page, put the book down beside him, and leaned up on his elbows. “That’s chapter two. I need a break. Anyone else wanna read? Or have something else to read?”

“I’ve read that a dozen times, but there’s just something about hearing it read by one of you Brits that really brings it to life for me,” Nate laughed from his spot curled up in the armchair. “Sorry, John, I vote you keep at it.”

“Your family really does this every year, Matt?” Sanjay stretched out on a sofa.

“Well, not necessarily this book every time, but other stories, yeah.” Matt nodded. He lay on his back with his feet propped up high on the wall.

“Hanukkah is all about telling stories,” Essie added from her spot curled next to Izzy on the other sofa.

“Well, John if you’re tired of reading that, I can read some out of this,” Izzy waved a smutty historical novella at him.

“ _Pass!_ ” He laughed. “Thanks, though. I just need a little break.”

A small voice from just outside the common area spoke in Mandarin. Everyone turned to look in the direction of the voice. The petite girl, held something in her hands, and with a tremulous voice, repeated herself in English. “A good book is a good friend.” She ducked her head, but then looked back at them sheepishly.

“You… You want to join us?” John sat up. “We’re just laying around and I’m reading.” He held up his book. The girl took a few steps closer.

“Are… are you John?” The girl blushed, and John nodded with a smile. “And is Matt here too?”

“That’s me!” Matt jumped up awkwardly, stumbled, and stuck his hand out to shake hers.

She looked up at him warily, then to John, and then down to the item she held in both hands. It was pink Care Bear with a rainbow on the front. She gripped it tightly, but held it out for them to see. “You did this. Why?”

John stood slowly to his feet and looked at Matt. “Uhm… We thought it would be fun?” Matt shrugged. The girl stared at him blankly.

“We, uhm… We know not everyone celebrates Christmas. But, everyone is away from their family right now, and we thought it might be nice if people knew someone cared about them.” John added.

“Yeah, that.” Matt nodded at John.

“We didn’t mean to offend you.” John smiled. “You… you don’t have to keep if you don’t…”

“No! No, I love it…” The girl pulled the bear to her chest. “I just… I’ve been here two years, and no one has ever given me a gift before.” She looked from John to Matt with a small smile. “Thank you.” With no warning, she threw her arms around John’s neck in a tight hug, and then hugged Matt. 

“Heh.” Matt blushed. “You… You’re welcome. You wanna… join us?”

“I always hear you all having so much fun. Have you known each other long?” She sat carefully on the floor, still hugging her bear. John sat cross legged in his old spot, and Matt resumed his position near the wall.

“We’ve known each other for about a year now,” Izzy answered, as she and Essie both slid off the couch to sit on the floor. “I’m Izzy, and this is Essie. But we only met the rest of these idiots when break started. It’s nice to have another female joining us.”

“I’m Nate, and that’s Sanjay. We just met everyone when break started too.” Nate offered as he rolled out of the armchair a sprawled out on the floor. 

“Hi!” Sanjay added as he attempted to stand, but tripped over his own feet crashed to the floor. Without checking to see if he was okay, the others laughed raucously. The new girl covered her mouth and giggled.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I don’t really know any of you. Sorry, Sanjay. Are you okay?” The girl ducked her head again.

“Pfft. He’s fine, aren’t ya Sanj?” Matt waved his hand dismissively at Sanjay.

“I’m _fine,_ no thanks to you, Matt.” Sanjay snapped, though he was grinning. 

“Well, I’m Jiayi… but no one ever gets that right, so everyone calls me Joey.” Jiayi waved her hand slightly.

“Would you rather people call you Ja… Jiy… Jiayi… Oh bloody hell. Sorry.” John blushed and buried his face in his hands.

With a giggle, Jiayi shook her head emphatically. “Call me Joey. _Please._ ” John groaned, eliciting uncontrollable laughter from his friends.

“Well, Joey, you’ve made John uncomfortable.” Izzy grinned. “Welcome to the family. You’re one of us now.”

 

**Sunday, 29 December – Game Night**

“You have to do it. _It’s a dare._ ” John mimicked as he stomped along the footpath. He came to a sudden stop and turned on Matt. “This is _your_ fault.”

“Wha… Why is it _my_ fault? You’re the one who took the dare, I’m just here for moral support!” Matt huffed indignantly.

“When you said _game night,_ I thought you meant Cluedo, or Monopoly, or poker. Something like that!” John crossed his arms over his chest in a pout.

“Nobody had any board games!” 

“Charades, then!”

“The girls wanted to play Truth or Dare. I couldn’t say no… I’m a little bit scared of Izzy.” Matt pulled a face of mock terror.

John snickered. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure Essie’s the crazy one.” With that, he frowned, turned, and continued to stomp off toward the medical sciences building.

“John? John, what are you going to do? There’s no way you’re getting in there.” Matt jogged up next to him.

“They dared me to find something gross. Do you know how easy that is? Wonderfully nonspecific. You’re the one who mentioned it should be something from one of the labs. So here we are.” John motioned broadly to the building looming ahead of them.

“But how are you getting in there? It’s break, and _late._ Security’s probably not even in there!” Matt shrugged as he followed John around the side of the building. 

“That’s what I’m counting on.” John huffed as he continued his march around to the back of the building. Scanning the darkened area, he approached the skip next to the locked maintenance shed. There was a low ledge just above the roof of the shed, and it ran just underneath a row of windows.

Checking once more to make sure no one was around, John pulled himself up onto the skip, and climbed up to the roof of the shed.

“John!” Hissed Matt. “ _What_ are you doing? Get down! Have you lost your mind?”

“Third window is Professor Kirk’s office. It’s always too hot in there, and he opens it all the time. Forgets to latch the lock.” John grunted as his foot slipped a few inches. He caught himself and balanced just in front of the ledge.

“ _What?_ Have you done this before?”

“Left part of a presentation I was working on in the lab last year. Had to get it, security wouldn’t let me in. “ John shrugged. “You coming?”

Matt cursed under his breath. “Everyone thinks _I’m_ crazy. It’s always the quiet ones. _Always._ ” Matt pulled himself up on the skip, balancing precariously. “That thing safe?” He pointed to the roof of the shed.

“Enough, I guess.” John shrugged and carefully climbed up onto the ledge.

“That really looks more decorative than weight bearing.” Matt laughed nervously.

“What, you’re friends with Sanjay, and suddenly you’re an engineer now? Nate teach you a few things about architecture?” John snipped as he stood up slowly.

“No, no. Just… looks a little precarious.” Matt shuddered as he crawled along the roof of the shed.

“Oh my God, you’re afraid of heights.” John barked a laugh. “Just get down. I can manage without you.”

“You… You sure?” Matt had already started backing down toward the skip.

“Yeah, I’m sure. This won’t take long.” John scooted glacially along the ledge.

“John? John, someone’s coming!” Matt hissed. “John, I think the guard is coming. I saw a light.”

“Shut up, and get down then. Don’t draw any attention!” John whispered, and kept inching forward. Matt reached over and grabbed John’s ankle. “Don’t you dare. Are you trying to kill me?” John hissed and tried to shake Matt’s hand off.

“This is stupid. C’mon John. Just stop it.” Matt tugged a little harder at John’s leg.

“I swear to God, I will kill you if you make me fall, Matt. Do not test me.” John kicked back swiftly and promptly lost his balance. Matt watched helplessly as John grabbed to hold on, and then fell back onto the skip. He sighed in relief when the impact didn’t cause the lid of the skip to give way.

And then John groaned. 

“John… Oh God. John, are you hurt? I’m sorry. SO Sorry. You can hate me forever... Just, let me get you help, yeah?” Forgetting his fear, Matt scrambled off the shed and ran to the side of the skip to be near John’s head. “Can you move? Maybe you shouldn’t move. I’ll get an ambulance.” Matt turned to run for help, but John grabbed him by the collar of his coat and yanked him back.

“I can move, just winded. Dislocated left shoulder. Thank you _so_ much.” John sat up slowly, and with a cry of pain slid down off the skip. “And don’t worry, I won’t hate you forever.” Matt grinned at him. “Because when I can use my arm again, I’m going to murder you.”

“Oh.” Matt flinched when John turned suddenly, despite being a bit wobbly. “Hey, where are you going? We need to take care of that shoulder!” 

“They dared me to bring back something gross. Watching you pop this back in should suffice, yeah?” John winced in pain as he stumbled along.

Matt laughed. “Sorry, mate. But yeah, I think that’ll do it. I have to admire your dedication to the game.” He stepped up to John’s right side and put his arm around John’s back for support. “Can you hold that arm against you until we get there? Keep it still?”

“Yes, doctor.” John rolled his eyes and groaned again. “And just so we’re clear, I win.”

“I don’t think Truth or Dare actually has a winner.”

“Don’t care. I win.”

“Whatever you say. _Idiot._ ”

 

**Monday, 30 December – Sledding**

“Sledding.” Matt grinned as he held up two plastic trays he’d managed to liberate from the dining hall. He’d gathered everyone together at the hill behind the residence hall.

Joey laughed. “Matt, there’s no snow. Doesn’t it have to snow to go sledding? I’ve never been, but I’m pretty sure…”

Matt waved her off. “Nah! It’s been raining for days! The ground is nice and soft…”

“You mean muddy.” Sanjay peered dubiously down the hill.

“Same thing.” Matt shrugged. “Look, these trays are plastic, they’ll slide perfectly on the wet… and mud… It’s practically the same thing.”

“I’m in!” John took one of the trays.

“Oh no you don’t!” Essie snatched the tray and spun out of John’s reach. “I still haven’t forgiven you for your little adventure in idiocy last night. No bloody way are you doing this. You’re in a sling!”

“See, I told you,” John looked at Matt and pointed at Essie. “Crazy one.” 

Izzy coughed to try to cover her laughter. “You’re not wrong!”

“C’mon you guys! It’ll be fun!” Matt tossed a tray on the ground and sat on it, pulling his knees toward his chest. “Nate? Sanj? C’mon!”

“Ah, I think this one’s a failure, bud. Sorry, Matt.” Nate shrugged and turned toward the footpath. Joey and Sanjay followed after him.

“Guys, c’mon. Don’t be like that!”Matt started scooting, a little at time, toward the slope.

“John may have forgiven you, but I haven’t. I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else.” Essie commanded.

“Yes, _your majesty,_ ” Matt mock bowed from his seated position.

“Oh, just shove off” Essie laughed and pushed his shoulder playfully. The shove was just enough to send Matt’s tray over the edge. He quickly lost his grasp on the tray and was sliding down the hill in the mud on his backside. He shouted something almost unintelligible back at them, which sent John into hysterics.

“What? Oh God, it was an accident!” Essie turned to John, her eyes wide. 

John watched his roommate roll to a stop at the bottom of the hill. He jumped up, pumped both fists in the air and shouted again. This time both Izzy and John nearly collapsed against each other in laughter. “He’ll be fine!” John gasped. “I can’t… I…” He fought to catch his breath, and winced when he jarred his shoulder. 

“It’s not funny!” Essie shoved John’s good shoulder and grabbed Izzy’s hand to pull her up the path.

“Yes. It really is. It’s quite hysterical, actually.” John giggle-snorted, and lost control again.

Struggling up the hill, covered head to toe in mud and clumps of grass, Matt paused to catch his breath, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted up at Essie, “ _As you wish!_ ”

 

**Tuesday, 31 December – Black Tie Event**

“So, you left the planning of this one up the girls? Probably a good call. I know I’d be crap at something like this.” John shrugged and winced.

“Shoulder still hurting?” Matt glanced back at him from his place in front of the mirror in their room. 

“Not too bad. But I know me, and it’s for the best if I leave it in the sling another day or two.” John smirked. “How’s your face?” 

“Eh, I’ve had worse.” Matt leaned in and inspected the turf burn he’d gotten on the right side of his face. “It’s a good story though. I can’t wait to tell it. The guys _definitely_ aren’t going to believe _any_ of this.” He turned to John. “I actually got to scream ‘as you wish’ when a crazy-princess-fairy-whatever pushed me down a hill. _Oh my God,_ they are never going to believe this!” Matt was completely giddy.

“You know, I’m not sure I believe you actually have _guys._ ” John laughed when Matt whipped a towel at him and missed.

“Like you’re so popular.”

“Weeelll… I do happen to have a fan club it seems. I had this roommate once, just drooling all over himself the second I walked in the room…” John winked and ducked as a shoe was aimed at his head.

“That guy sounds like a real idiot.” Matt pulled a face in the mirror.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.” John grinned broadly. “That’s a nice tie, by the way.”

Someone had probably thought it was nice at one time. It had definitely seen better days. Matt turned and showed off his ensemble. He was wearing the stained, lime green and orange plaid bow tie, a black t-shirt printed to look like the front of a tuxedo, black jeans, and black Converse. He strutted to the middle of the room like a model, and did a little twirl. John whistled and catcalled. 

“You need help with your tie?” Matt pointed at the long tie hanging loose around his neck.

“If you don’t mind, that be great. Thanks.”

A moment later John was checking his reflection in the mirror. The tie wouldn’t have been too awful, it was light blue with a large silver, olive green and navy paisley print… Okay, it was fairly awful. The whole thing made worse by the plaid pattern running behind the paisley print. John wore the tie with a grey t-shirt that, if he were a vain man, he would have admitted fit _just right,_ a black zip up hoodie, navy denims, and his tatty old trainers, since he hadn’t planned to need anything nicer when he’d thrown his stuff in a duffle on moving-in day.

There was a knock on their door and Matt reached to open it. He looked John up and down, and shook his head. “It’s not fair. Even in a sling and smelly old trainers, you could make anything look good.”

“You’re not helping your case, weirdo.” John laughed.

“You guys ready?” Nate stepped into the room. He was wearing a bright pink bow tie with a grey jumper, khakis, and cowboy boots, along with his coat. Sanjay stepped in wearing a long red tie with green and white polka-dots over his deep burgundy colored kurta, black trousers, black dress shoes, and his jacket.

“Looking rather dapper there, gentlemen.” John grinned. “Shall we?” He turned to Matt who was buttoning up a dark grey cardigan. Matt nodded and motioned for the others to lead the way, he grabbed the little bag sitting on John’s desk, and they trooped up the rooftop. 

“Oh… Wow…” John gasped as they stepped out into the cold night. Izzy, Essie and Joey had picked a corner of the rooftop and had strung strands of white fairy lights and silver garland everywhere. They’d cut snowflakes and stars out of white and silver paper and had them dangling from some of the lights and garland.

Matt whistled low. “The place looks amazing, ladies. As do you!” He looked at John, who nodded, and held up the little bag he’d brought.“John and I made these for you. Well, mostly _I_ made them, because the big baby can’t do anything one handed.” 

John punched Matt in the arm, and reached into the bag. They’d taken some of the extra ties and twisted them into little rosettes and made wrist corsages. He pulled out the red and white one. “For Joey, I think.” She was wearing a red jumper with black leggings and black boots. John held it still for her and they giggled together as the two of them tried to each tie it one handed. 

“We’ll be here all night if we let John do this.” Matt shook his head. He pulled out a blue one and smiled at Izzy. “I guess this one is yours!” She was dressed all in black, with the exception of her bright blue scarf.

“Oh my God, you guys. These are amazing. You are incredible.” Izzy admired the corsage and smiled.

“And for her majesty,” Matt winked and Essie punched him as he pulled out a pink and yellow corsage. “The tie was hideous, but it made some nice flowers, I think.” It matched her pink jumper just fine. Matt noticed she was wearing the necklace he and John had bought her.

“I really am sorry,” Essie whispered, and Matt just laughed as he tied the corsage on her wrist. “Forgive me?”

“As you wish.” He winked at her, and she punched him again.

“All right, that’s enough, you two.” Joey laughed. “Look, we’ve got food that Matt stole from the dining hall.” They all laughed at bagels, biscuits, and fruit. “There are some sodas from the vending machine… try to save the ginger ale for midnight, because we were too poor to buy champagne. But at least we found some glasses to drink it out of.”

Sanjay nudged Nate forward. “Actually, Sanj and I scraped together our cash and…” He pulled a bottle from his coat. A collective cheer rose from the group. 

The night was cold and crisp, the clouds had cleared away and the stars shone brightly. 

Mostly the friends just huddled together and laughed and talked about nothing in particular. They ate the food they were all sick and tired of, and laughed at Matt’s expense and the fact that the older ladies who worked in the dining hall all _clearly_ fancied him. Of course that was the only reason he got away with any of it. 

Just before midnight, they poured their champagne and huddled around John’s watch to see the seconds tick by. At the stroke of midnight, they raised a toast. Izzy kissed Essie and there were a lot of enthusiastic claps on the back and awkward hugs, and quick pecks on the cheek. 

Essie asked Izzy if she wanted to dance, and if she would please sing “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” again. The request was so sweet, Izzy nearly melted, and agreed immediately. 

As the girls twirled around the rooftop, John stepped next to Joey. “I uhm, I’m a terrible dancer… And I only have one good arm… But do you wanna…” She grinned up at him and nodded. 

They laughed because she was just as terrible as he was, and she even had two good arms. The spectacle was so ridiculous, the sweetness of Izzy and Essie’s dance was lost when Izzy couldn’t be bothered to stop laughing long enough to keep singing, and Essie somehow managed to trip over both John and Joey.

By the end of their evening, they were all frozen through, and exhausted. They divided the work of cleaning up, and made a short job of it. 

“Look!” Sanjay pointed to the horizon. There was a thin line glowing golden. “Sunrise!”

John took the lead, and walked to the edge of the roof. Sitting carefully on the low ledge that ran all the way around, he swung his legs out over the side of the building to watch. Matt soon joined him on his right, and Essie on his left with Izzy next to her. Joey sat next to Matt, Nate on her right, and Sanjay to Izzy’s left. They sat in silence as they watched the bright new day, the first day of the new year, burn away the remnants of the old.

“God, this is perfect.” John whispered. “Really,” he bumped his shoulder against Matt’s. “Everything about this break has been perfect. Thanks, mate. Best Christmas I ever had.”

Matt only nodded and smiled. “Happy New Year, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've been in laptop Hades for the last three days. Not to mention being sick. Blah. 'Tis the season. This was the first opportunity to post I've had since Friday, and I am incredibly sorry for the delay. I plan on catching up either tonight or tomorrow, as far as posting the chapters go. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I had a lot of fun with it.
> 
> And in case you're wondering, yes, John's roommate Matt is my O.C. Matt from my "Essential" series. Obviously, for this story, you needn't have read any of "Essential" as this is all back story.


	13. Christmas Day, 2001: Mycroft & Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"And the contention was so sharp between them, that they departed asunder one from the other..." Acts 15:39_

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do not walk out that front door. You _will_ apologize to your mother, and we _will_ be discussing this.”

In twenty one years of life, Sherlock’s father had never been the disciplinarian. Never raised his voice. Not a single threat. Sherlock could not recall a single instance he had heard his father ever use his name in entirety. It was a truly singular experience that felt foreign and wrong, magnified by an undercurrent of foreboding in the tone. 

This was the side of his father Sherlock had never seen in action, the man who was a director at MI6, responsible for the comings and goings of untold numbers agents, spies, and informants. He was a conductor of information, a commander of men, a custodian of justice, and Sherlock surmised that he could be ruthless when necessary. He never brought any of that part of himself home with him.

Until now.

Somewhere in the cacophonous, discordant raging of too much stimulation and dissonant, unwelcome emotions, a primal curiosity to provoke and explore this uncharted facet of his father fought to rear its head. 

He almost paused. The thought actually occurred to him to turn around. But he was driven by the compulsion to flee, to escape the turbulence of his own mind. There was only one way he knew for certain he could do that, and the little vials of manufactured peace could only be obtained on the other side of that door.

He maintained an air of the unaffected, and continued his march toward release.

“William… _Sherlock, please._ ” 

His resolve wavered at the sound of grief in his mother’s voice. Too many times he’d caused mummy pain, compelled her into the role of disciplinarian, and as he got older, forced her to be a spectator of his own self destruction.

Sherlock let his hand hover over the doorknob. _Turn back. Turn back now. You’ll be the death of her._ The nagging voice that sounded irritatingly like Mycroft, and maintained an almost constant commentary, looping incessantly, in his head did not help his torment. If he stayed, it would be for mummy, and to a lesser degree father. Mycroft would have no say in the matter. 

It was unfortunate, then, that the actual physical Mycroft chose that moment to interject his opinion of the goings on.

“Predictable.” 

One word. Four syllables. An indictment against his very intelligence, uttered with such contemptible disparagement that, in his present state of mind, it left Sherlock with only two suitable options. As one of those option would result in his parents being bereft of both sons -- the eldest enshrined in the family burial plot, and the youngest incarcerated for the remainder of his days -- he made the only sensible decision he’d made in months. 

He left.

With a feral roar, Sherlock heaved the door open, sending it careening into the coat rack. Cousin Leah stood on the other side of the threshold with her hand poised, ready to knock, her little family staring, wide eyed with alarm. He refused to make eye contact with her, and instead shoved past her and down the front footpath to the street. 

“Sherlock?” Leah called after him. She watched him make his way down the street. By the slope of his shoulders, she could tell he had turned inward on himself, and his movements were frantic and sporadic. With her hand still raised, she turned back to see Mycroft now standing in the doorway, stormy grey eyes watching after his brother with contempt. “Myc?”

“Let him go.” Mycroft’s tone was cold, devoid of any emotion.

“What happened?” Glancing over her shoulder, Leah could no longer see her youngest cousin.

“Please, come in.” Having collected himself, Mycroft pasted on a manufactured smile, and gestured for Leah and her family to enter. He took their coats, and righted the upended rack. “There are biscuits in the sitting room, and the model train track is waiting to be set up,” he whispered conspiratorially to the children, who giggled with glee and dashed off to play.

Leah watched Mycroft warily, but followed him to the dining room. Brandon, her husband of ten years, who had long ago resigned himself to never understanding a thing that happened within the confines of the Holmes home, held her hand reassuringly.

The sight that greeted them broke Leah’s heart. Mycroft’s face was schooled in a sort of grim resolve as he watched his father, who was seated at the head of the table, whispering to mummy, who was curled into his lap, weeping.

“Myc, _please._ What happened?” Leah turned to her cousin, and grasped his arm, pleading.

“ _He,_ ” Mycroft motioned broadly toward the door, indicating his brother, “came crashing in, high out of his mind, at 4:30 this morning, demanding that he needed to make an announcement. Of course we acquiesced, because that’s what we do, we cater to precious prince _William._ ” Leah flinched at the venom in Mycroft’s tone.

“He was high?” Stunned, Brandon scrubbed his hand over his face.

“Yes, high. Which is, apparently _not_ a new thing.” Mycroft slumped into a chair. “That was part of his announcement. He’d had his heart broken, by whom he would not say, and to ‘silence the voices,’ those were his words, he started using. It’s been nearly a year. He’s been avoiding us, so we had no idea. He would only admit to cocaine, but God only knows what else he might have tried.”

“Okay, so he needs help. Rehab. That can be managed, surely.” Leah nodded.

“That was only the beginning.” Sitting up and squaring his shoulders, Mycroft inhaled deeply. “He announced that he no longer wishes to pursue work for father, or with MI6.”

“Well, no one can force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do. We joke about it, but it’s not like MI6 is _actually_ the family business.” Leah took a seat across from Mycroft and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “He’ll have his degree at the end of next term. There are any number of things he could do as a chemist. I fail to see…”

“Ah, that was proclamation number three.” Shaking his head, Mycroft interrupted. “He fails to see the necessity of spending an entire term preparing and presenting a thesis to demonstrate what he has learned, as he has already done so through course work. The ceremony, diploma, and hollow, sentimental platitudes of under qualified men he has no respect for, are a waste of his time. So, since he has gleaned all the knowledge he can from these lesser intellects, he will not be returning to university for his final term.”

Leah gaped. “That’s…”

“He believes himself to be above the _‘banality of our dull existence’_ here, and has decided to pursue avenues that will prove to truly put to good use his mental capacities.” Mycroft nearly spat the last words. “Though he has no plan yet as to what those avenues may be, beyond his next high.”

“What brought all of this on?” Leah wiped tears from her eyes as she watched a range of emotions play over Mycroft’s face.

“Boredom.” Mycroft _did_ spit that word out, as if it were an affront to his very existence.

“Bor- boredom?” Blinking back her surprise, Leah stood. “Where was he headed, Mycroft?”

“Well, he was coming down from a drug induced high, and judging by his behavior, I would assume he left to find his dealer.” Mycroft shrugged callously, and inspected the button on the cuff of his sleeve. Mummy’s tears began anew.

“We have to go get him, Myc. We have to bring him back, or take him to rehab. _Something!_ ” In a panic, Leah rushed around the table to stand in front of Mycroft. “Do you know where he goes? Can you take me to him?”

“He wouldn’t listen to his own parents, why would he listen to you?” Mycroft avoided making eye contact. “He is an adult, and free to make his own choices.”

“He _trusts_ me,” Leah pleaded. She meant no ill will when she said it, but she saw the moment her words struck her cousin to his core. “Myc, I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t mean…”

“You go.” Mycroft’s answer was soft, but icy. He stood, and turned his back to her.

“Mycroft, please.” Mummy stood and took a step toward him. “If you know where he went, please. Bring him back.”

“We’ll stay here in case he comes back, and you’ll take my car.” Father’s word was resolute. 

Mycroft sighed and pursed his lips. “So. I have no say in this. As per usual, let us all cease living our lives and make certain that poor William is cared for. Very well. But when this ends poorly, please note,” Mycroft looked to each person in the room, “I wanted to let him go. To let him learn his lessons. If he brings hurt back with him, I’ll take no part in the blame.” 

Snatching the car keys from father without another word, Mycroft grabbed his coat and stormed from the house. Leah dashed after him, afraid to let Mycroft encounter his younger brother on his own.

They rode in silence as Mycroft navigated the car through the city. Traffic was thankfully light, as most people were in celebrating with their families. It was only late afternoon, but the sky was already going dusk, mirroring the ever growing dark mood within the vehicle. 

“Myc, I…” Leah’s words were strangled by her own screams and the otherworldly groan of metal as another vehicle slammed into her side of the car. There was an explosion as the glass of the windows gave out under the pressure of the impact.

Mycroft couldn’t recall where he was. All he could hear was a tinny humming in his ears. Everything seemed to be out of focus. There was a smell of… something… metallic. He scrubbed his hand over his face, and it came away coated in something dark and sticky. 

Blood.

That realization shocked him back into alertness. He was in father’s car. He was going… somewhere… to… _Leah._ Leah was with him.

He shifted in his seat enough to see her there. She was looking back at him, and her mouth was moving, but all he could hear was the persistent humming. She was pinned, he could see that clearly enough. And there was blood. Too much blood. He reached for her hand, and she took it gingerly. Her grasp was weak and she was trembling. 

After a few moments, or it might have been hours, Mycroft couldn’t really be certain, Leah’s voice finally broke through the humming. “...going to be okay, Myc... It’s fine, yeah? Don’t be angry…” Her breathing sounded off, and Mycroft squinted to look at her in the increasing darkness.

“Leah, just breathe. Stop talking. Just breathe.” His own voice sounded off, too loud. Hysterical.

And suddenly the darkness was pierced by the flashing lights and strobes of emergency services. It seemed an eternity before they were extracted from the vehicle, Mycroft first, and then Leah. 

The medics examined Mycroft, and despite his insistence that he would be fine, and that he really needed to be with his cousin, they strapped him to a backboard with a brace around his neck just to be safe. An officer asked him if he remembered what happened, and when he couldn’t, it was explained that witnesses had seen the other driver run the stop signal, Mycroft had done nothing to fault. For some reason, that information brought little reassurance as Mycroft could hear the medics frantically calling out to each other.

“Leah?” He managed to ask.

“They’re doing everything they can.” The officer patted his hand. “Is there anyone I can call?” Mycroft rattled off the number. “Her husband will be there too,” he added. The officer nodded, and trotted off to call in the information.

The medics loaded Mycroft into an ambulance, and he lost track of Leah in the movement. “Where will you take her?” He looked up at the medic nearest his head, not even attempting to mask the fear he knew was evident.

“Nearest hospital is Saint Bartholomew’s. We’re all headed there. The other two are going right to surgery.” The medic smiled down at him as she checked his blood pressure again.

“Two?”

Seeing his confusion, the medic patted his hand. “The other driver. He was injured pretty badly as well.”

Mycroft nodded as well as he could with the neck brace on. He felt ill, and told the medic so. “You have a pretty severe concussion. They can give you something to help with the nausea after they check you over, but not until then.” Her voice was sympathetic. Mycroft hated her for it. “Okay, we’re here. Hang on.”

The overhead lights in the hospital corridor only served to add to Mycroft’s discomfort as they raced under them. The poking and prodding of the nurses and doctors only served to add to his irritability. After a battery of tests, including x-rays and a CT scan, a tidy row of stitches to close the gash on his forehead, a brace for his sprained wrist, specific instructions regarding his concussion, and finally, a dose of painkillers and the blessed anti-nausea medication, Mycroft was released to join his family in waiting to hear Leah’s prognosis.

Mummy fawned over her poor boy, and insisted on sitting right next to him, so she could hold his good hand. Father sat across from him and watched him carefully, to make certain there were no surprise or hidden side effects from the concussion. Mycroft slumped in his seat and resigned himself to their attentions.

Brandon paced by the windows, chewing nervously at his thumbnail. The children had been left with the other relatives back at the house.

An exhausted looking young woman, cradling a baby had joined them in the waiting area. She sat away from them, and avoided eye contact. When father decided to get coffee for everyone, he extended the offer to her as well. She simply shook her head “no.” Mycroft felt reasonably certain she was the other driver’s wife.

Time passed glacially.

All thought of Sherlock had been given up hours ago.

Until there was a scuffle in the hall, heading in their direction. Two security officers entered the waiting room, escorting a disheveled, frantic, coming down from a high, Sherlock. “Anyone here know this man?”

Father stood, and stared at Sherlock sternly. “He’s my son. But I’m not certain he should be here. Perhaps you should see him out.”

“Father!” Sherlock cried. “Please! I… I went home. I went to apologize. And they told me…” He looked around, panic stricken. “Mummy… please!” Finally his eyes rested on Mycroft. Sherlock blanched. “My. Oh, My… My I’m sorry…” He pleaded and began weeping. “My…” He pulled himself free from the officers and threw himself into the chair next to his brother.

“It’s all right,” father told the officers. “He can stay.” The men shrugged and turned away.

“William.” Mycroft sighed. Sherlock reached up to brush a finger over the row of stitches. Mycroft brushed his hand away. “No, William. This is not… I can’t…” Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock looked as if he’d been slapped.

“Where’s Leah?” Sherlock whispered, tears still running down his face.

“Still in surgery. We still… we don’t know anything yet…” Mycroft looked up as a doctor entered the waiting area. Everyone, including the sad woman in the corner stood.

“Mrs. Lyons?” The doctor scanned the room, and the woman in the corner nodded at him. He stepped into the room and stood directly in front of her, with his back to the others, in an effort to afford them some privacy. Everyone else took their seats, except Brandon, who continued his pacing. 

The doctor was speaking very softly, but Mycroft listened carefully. Based on the injuries that were outlined, he was certain the patient they were discussing was the other driver. An inexplicable anger rose in his chest, though he knew this woman was not at fault. And he could hardly be angry at the doctor for doing his job. But still, the anger was there, and growing.

Sherlock was turned in his chair, staring at the back of the doctor’s head. “Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered. “Turn around. _Now._ Let it go.”

“It was him. The man who did this. They… they saved that man’s life?” Sherlock hissed, keeping his voice low.

“That _is_ what doctors do.” Mycroft condescended. Sherlock growled in response. They didn’t notice another doctor, with a nurse, step into the room.

“Sinclair?” Brandon asked, as he stepped toward the doctor.

“Yes, are you the husband?”

Brandon nodded and stepped closer, mummy stood and held his hand.

“Mr. Sinclair, I’m very sorry. The surgical team did everything in their power, but the nature of your wife’s injuries was very severe. There was nothing we could do. I am very sorry for your loss, sir…”

The doctor was cut short by an agonized wail as Sherlock jumped from his seat. “My, you said… You said doctors _save_ people. Well, Leah’s dead. _Dead,_ My. But they saved the monster who did this?” He turned on the woman in the corner, in a blind rage. 

“ _William!_ ” Mycroft and father shouted at once. Before either could get a hand on him, he spun Mr. Lyons’ doctor around and punched him with a roar. With a sickening crunch, the doctor dropped to the ground. Despite his injuries, Mycroft tackled his crazed brother into the wall.

“Get security, now!” The nurse shouted down the hall as she ran to kneel over the doctor. “Just stay still, I think your nose is broken, doctor.”

“Oh well done, little brother.” Mycroft spat. He shoved Sherlock hard into the wall. “You know what? The man who hit us? He’s not the monster. He’s not the reason we were out there to begin with.” He grabbed Sherlock’s chin, and forced him to look him in the eyes. “This? This is your fault. And I will _never_ forgive you for this. Now I suggest you go quietly with security before I do something I regret.” He smacked Sherlock hard across the face with a sneer and shoved him toward the officers. “I’m done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not over just yet.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, since this is an AU, and I basically do what I want anyway, when Mycroft says " _don't be absurd. I'm not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one_ " in HLV... Let's pretend that he was talking about Leah. Everyone in the government, and MI6 would know her, would know what happened, and exactly _why_ it happened. Even though that particular scene probably isn't going to have a chance to happen in this story line, I really just felt the need to poke you right in the feels for some reason.


	14. Christmas Day, 2001: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a bad day at work.
> 
> And a very close encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation. Of sorts.

John had clearly lost his mind. It was the simplest explanation. Insanity was the only conclusion that made any sense at all.

He’d already taken three different on-call shifts over the past two weeks. What harm would one more be? This was all in preparation for the army anyway, so John figured he may as well get use to terrible hours and sleeping on the fly while he still had a modicum of control over the situation.

Not to mention he’d felt bad for Dr. Clarke. It was her granddaughter’s first Christmas, it didn’t seem right for her to miss it.

The shift started at 6:00 PM on Christmas Eve, and lasted until 6:00 PM on Christmas. John figured most people would be safely indoors with their families, and that he would be able to sleep soundly most of the night. Based on that logic, he’d made plans. He was going to Harry’s for a dinner, and to finally meet her new girlfriend. 

Harry had called him months ago, gushing that she had finally met _the one._ Clara. She was a school teacher, volunteered with Habitat for Humanity, loved karaoke (which is how they met, unsurprisingly, in a bar), made her own sushi _and_ pasta, and apparently, the sun rose and set for her alone. John had never heard Harry so happy, and for the first time in years, she was sober more often than not.

He also knew dinner with Harry was going to be her opportunity to try to dissuade him from continuing his career path. The terror attacks on New York City and Washington, D.C. back in September had thrown the western world into a blood frenzy, and the U.S. and her allies had launched the ambitious war on terror. John had long since signed on the dotted line, accepted the funds to pay for his schooling, and now it was just a matter of time. Sandhurst was beckoning. Queen and country would not be denied, no matter how much Harry Watson disagreed.

After dinner, he planned to head back to the flat he shared with his friend from uni, Matt MacGregor. They’d watch _Die Hard,_ because that was a tradition. And they’d drink too much, because Matt would’ve just spent all day with his family, and it would have been awful because he would have had to tell and retell the story about how his fiancee had been working at the World Trade Center for an internship and hadn’t made it out _that_ day.

Considering what lay ahead, a 24 hour on-call shift seemed like a walk in the park.

“Good luck tonight, Dr. Watson,” one of the nurses waved as she was leaving.

“It’s Christmas, how bad can it be?” John shrugged with a grin. The nurse stopped, stared at him for a moment, and burst into laughter. “What? What’s funny?” 

“You’ll see.” Unable to control her giggling, the nurse just waved him off and walked away.

“What was that all about?” John asked the nurse sorting charts behind him.

“You’re new here. You’re naive, and it’s cute.” She winked at him. 

“I’m not going to let you scare me. Tonight will be fine.” John smiled back at her. “You’ll see.”

And the first few hours were fine. John had actually gotten bored. He went on rounds, spending extra time with the patients, simply to have someone to talk to. Just before midnight he stopped at the nurse’s station. “See, I told you. Nothing to be concerned about.” John grinned as he poured some coffee. The three nurses standing nearby all exchanged knowing looks. John rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Call me if you need me.”

Ten minutes later he got the first page. 

“Nothing too urgent,” the A & E nurse explained. “We’ve just got a skeleton crew on tonight, and there’s a bit of a line out there. Think you could…”

“Absolutely. Where do I start?” John smiled as the nurse handed him the first file. He skimmed over it and chuckled. “Oh, God.” 

“Happy Christmas, right?” The nurse giggled, and led him to his first patient. A 63 year-old man who’d had one (or three) too many cups of Aunt Edith’s special spiked eggnog, and decided he’d better try out that skate board before he gave it to his grandson in the morning. He’d ended up with a fractured right ulna and a bruised coccyx for his efforts.

“Well, that was… fun.” John shook his head.

“Wanna have some more?” The nurse held up another chart.

“Let’s do this.” John laughed. Staying busy would help pass the time, right?

And stay busy they did. The first few patients seemed pretty understandable.

The lady who swore she had appendicitis, but had simply overindulged and needed a little relief.

The young father who waited to put the Barbie dream house together, and skipping the instructions, somehow came to need a hacksaw. And 23 stitches.

A grandmother who had been so concerned about having a perfect holiday, she’d neglected to take care of herself, and now would be in hospital with pneumonia instead.

There was the teenage girl who had spent the past few days vomiting. When John suggested a pregnancy test, her mum had squawked at the suggestion. He explained it was standard procedure, because how would she know any different, and had gone ahead. When the results came back positive, the girl just blushed and smiled to herself, while her mum carried on about how it was impossible. “Christmas miracle, I guess.” John smiled. Mum did not smile back. 

John was just finishing up his paperwork on the Christmas miracle when a nurse approached him. “Doctor Watson? If you’re free, I’ve got another one. Eight year-old. Mum’s with him. Said he fell down the stairs. He’s pretty banged up…”

“And?” John’s stomach clenched as he reached for the chart.

“Mum’s got a black eye too. Tried to cover it with concealer. They’re repeat customers.”

John flipped through the chart. It was entirely too thick for someone so young. Sprains. Broken bones. Cuts and bruises. He cursed. “All right, stay with me. If you hear me say _this is definitely worse than it looks,_ you make the call, yeah? I’m not messing around with child abuse. I don’t care what sort of fight his mother puts up. If this is what I think it is, it ends tonight.” The nurse nodded in agreement.

There were days John hated being right. 

He collapsed onto a couch in the staff lounge after that. He wanted a cup of tea. No, he wanted something stronger. But what he _needed_ was some rest.

And for the bloody ghosts of Christmas past to leave him the hell alone. The brute was dead. So why was he suddenly remembering now? Because of that kid. God. How could people be such monsters? And on Christmas. He forced himself up, washed his face at the sink, and stared indecisively at the vending machine. He’d just made his choice when he was paged back to A & E.

“Stab wound. Mugging.” The nurse from earlier had lost her jovial smile, and just looked tired. “God, how can people be so awful, even on Christmas.”

“It’s like you’re in my head.” John frowned as he read over the chart. 

It seemed 6:30 AM on Christmas morning, when people had either been out entirely too late drinking with friends, or were leaving their homes laden with gifts and extra cash, was a perfect time for petty thieves to be out. Happy Christmas to them, yeah? 

There was a several hour long run on patients who had been assaulted. Mostly bumps and bruises, a few minor cuts (but no more actual stabbings), a handful of sprains, and one broken bone. But the police weren’t leaving anything to chance. 

“Long time, no see, doc!” One constable joked when he brought in his second mugging victim of the morning.

“How have you _not_ caught these guys yet?” John scrubbed his hand over his face and resumed working on the stack of charts that he’d accumulated.

“Skeleton crew.” The constable shrugged. “Christmas, ya know?” 

“I’m well aware.” John yawned. 

He was on a search for a place to sleep when he was paged once more to A & E.

It turns out A & E is a midday tradition in some families. Kids with new bikes, and skates, and sports equipment had to try it all out so they could show off to the neighbors, resulting in all manner of breaks and sprains. Inexperienced cooks were giving the big holiday feast a go for the first time, and wound up with deep cuts or severe burns. Then there were the inevitable holiday fist fights amongst brothers. 

And dear God. John just really needed to sleep.

Around 4:00 PM John bumped into the nurse who’d laughed at him the night before. “God, doc, you look like hell. Have a restful shift?” She grinned.

“Sod off.” He grumbled as he flipped through a chart.

“Happy Christmas to you too!” Her shrill sing-song voice seemed to stab him right between the eyes. 

That’s when the call came. Two car accident, three wounded. At least two were going to need to be prepped for surgery. John was paged down to surgery this time. Any other time he would have been ecstatic to get an opportunity to scrub in and assist on a trauma patient, that was what he trained for after all. But he was just so exhausted. He swallowed a cup of coffee and poured another one to drink on the way.

“Doctor Watson, I need you to assist on this.” Doctor Singh filled him in. 45 year-old male. He had driven through a stop signal, and run his car into the side of another vehicle. Both legs were crushed. There was concern about spinal trauma, and of course blood loss. John nodded in understanding, and scrubbed in.

The adrenaline sustained him, and John made it through the surgery without killing the patient. He had actually contributed quite a bit, and was very proud of the work he’d done.

“Excellent job today, Doctor Watson. I think I’ll be calling on you to assist again in the near future,” Doctor Singh clapped him on the back. He checked the time. “I know it’s late, you were suppose to be off two hours ago, but do you think you could let the patient’s wife know his status?”

“Be happy to, sir. Best part of the day so far.” John smiled and headed to the family waiting room with the chart. He stopped a nurse on his way. “Do you know which waiting room Mr. Lyons’ wife is in?”

“Oh, yeah, right here. She’s the one with the baby.” The nurse leaned in to whisper, "be gentle though, the other family’s in there too.”

“Oh, bloody hell. Who thought _that_ was a good idea?” John closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. The nurse just shrugged sympathetically and went on her way. Mustering his courage, John stepped into the waiting room. Everyone stood and stared at him.

“Mrs. Lyons?” He scanned the room, and the woman in the corner nodded at him. He stepped into the room and stood directly in front of her, with his back to the others, in an effort to afford them some privacy. Everyone else took their seats, except the man pacing by the windows, who continued his pacing. Probably a husband. 

“Mrs. Lyons, your husband’s injuries were quite severe.” He detailed the extent of the fractures, explained the rods and screws they’d had to use to reconstruct the bones, and the months of physical therapy he would need. As he was talking, another surgeon, Doctor Smithson, stepped into the room. He could tell by the look on the man’s face his was not happy news. 

John turned back to Mrs. Lyons, in an effort to distract her from the reaction he knew was forthcoming. He considered taking her from the room entirely, but the other family had the doorway blocked. He placed himself a little more firmly between Mrs. Lyons and the family to his back. “But the good news is,” John continued softly, “he survived. And we were able to save both of his legs. It’s going to be a long road, but…”

An agonized wail rose behind him, and the anguished man jumped from his seat. “My, you said… You said doctors save people. Well, Leah’s dead. Dead, My. But they saved the monster who did this?” John could hear the moment the other man turned to face them. 

“Get down,” John whispered to Mrs. Lyons, just as members of the other family shouted at the man, whose name must have been William. John clenched his hands into fists, but the other man was quicker. A grip on his shoulder, a dizzying spin, and a blow to the face dropped the exhausted doctor immediately to the floor. He didn’t have time to see his attacker’s face.

There was a commotion elsewhere in the room as security was called, but none of that mattered to John. He was fairly certain his nose was broken. A nurse ran to his side and confirmed as much.

She helped him to sit up, but made him stay still until security could get the other man out of the room. Doctor Simthson soon joined them, and began checking John over. “Well, that’s going to bruise quite nicely.” The older doctor joked, trying to lighten the mood. John just groaned.

He froze when a pair of very expensive leather shoes stepped in front of him. He looked up the line of the legs, and to the face. It was the older gentleman, maybe the father of the family, who had been sitting in the waiting room. 

“My apologies for my son’s behavior, doctor. No doubt you will want to press charges. Please know, I have taken the liberty of doing so myself. His rash behavior is inexcusable, even in a time of duress, and will not go unpunished. I will leave my card at the desk. If you have any medical expenses that need to be seen to, please send them to my attention.” Before John could respond, the man spun on his heel, and escorted his mourning family from the waiting room.

Doctor Smithson whistled low. 

“What just happened?” John blinked in awe, and then cursed. “Can I get up off this floor now? It’s freezing down here. And can someone please make sure Mrs. Lyons is all right?”

“Right away, doctor.” Doctor Smithson and the nurse helped John up, and then Doctor Smithson guided John to an exam room.

“You want me to call an ENT guy, John? Or you want me to just…”

“Just do it. Don’t even worry with numbing it. Not the first time.” John shrugged.

“Whatever you say,” Doctor Smithson winced and popped John’s disjointed nose back into place. Doctor Smithson had a front row seat to Vulgarities 101, with Doctor John Watson that day. He helped John get cleaned up, tossed him a clean scrub top, and carefully placed some tape across the bridge of John’s nose, just for support.

“Can I call anyone for you?” Doctor Smithson asked.

“What time is it?” John winced as he inspected the bruises that were blossoming under both eyes.

“Almost 9:30 now.”

“God. No, I need to call my sister and beg off dinner. I think I just need to go home and drink. So very much.” John turned to Doctor Smithson with a sigh. “Thanks, Bob, for… You know” He pointed to his face.

“Happy Christmas, John.”

“Sod off, Bob.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, the idea for this chapter stems from, and is based (VERY LOOSELY) on, a Christmas episode of one of my favorite shows ever... Scrubs. Season 1, episode 11, "My Own Personal Jesus." It's exceptional. And, it was also the first time I ever heard the song "Sinner Man," which we all will recognize for obvious reasons. 
> 
> And, my apologies to anyone who works in any aspect of the medical field in the UK. I have no idea how on-call doctors work over there. I literally based this story off an episode of an American medical sit-com.


	15. Christmas Day, 2005: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can never go home.
> 
> So you may as well break and enter your brother's townhouse, and touch all his priceless stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is broken, and he knows it. That's a problem.

It was a game. Nothing more.

Sherlock knew the truth. Knew that this was all just strategy and posturing.

Chess. With real lives at stake. _His_ life at stake, to be specific. He knew it was nothing more than that because he could see each move playing out in a precise, calculated attack. With every advance, his opponent struck back with precision. All too often he’d be forced into a retreat, losing ground and momentum. 

And then there were the times he was drawn into the trap.

This was one of those times. His opponent knew him too well. Intimately. Knew he had needs. Knew, despite his best efforts to appear to the contrary, he had a heart.

He also knew his adversary well enough to know that this particular move had been chosen by another, that his foe’s hand had been forced into action. It was a lateral move that was costly, yet afforded him little reward beyond the fact that it tightened the trap marginally.

Sherlock stood very still, fingers steepled under his chin, and considered his next move. It seemed obvious, but at what cost? He cursed himself bitterly. He’d taken the bait. He always took the bait. 

He was weak. Sentimental. A fool.

It had been four years. Four years since he had ruined everything. Four years since he’d laid his cards on the table and stormed out. Four years since the accident that destroyed more than his father’s car. Four years since Leah…

Four years.

Since Mycroft vowed to never forgive him.

Since he’d assaulted a man while under the influence of an illegal substance.

Since father had pressed charges.

Since they’d all turned their backs and dumped him in an institution. _Rehab_ they’d called it. He failed to see the difference. He was broken. Wrong. Needed to be _fixed._ They couldn’t do it, so they’d left him there alone with the strangers and the warring voices in his head.

He’d stayed as long as was necessary to fulfill the agreed upon requirements father had bargained for him after the assault, and he never thought about it after. It was a singular incident, the culmination of the chemicals he’d injected into his system and the emotions he could never seem to get a handle on. Ultimately it was an inconsequential encounter, the man had served his plebeian purpose as an outlet for Sherlock’s frustrated rage.

Punishment fulfilled -- for that’s what it had been, not _help,_ and most certainly not _rehabilitation_ \-- Sherlock left the center of his own volition. He was an adult and could make his own decisions.

And his decision was to test his limits. How close could he get to the coveted substances before he would undo all the “fixing” that had been done him? As it turned out, being in the same room with a dealer was _not_ too close. Holding a vial in his hand was.

He also decided to see how long he could survive without the interference of his family. If he tried to go back, they’d just send him away again. So he stayed away. And he planned to stay away for good.

It took almost a year for him to realize they were as stubborn as he. 

He’d helped an old man with the problem of thugs scaring away tenants from the rooms he rented out. In exchange for his services, the old man had agreed to let Sherlock have one of his rooms, free of charge, for a few months. At the end of the agreed upon time, Sherlock had managed to scrape together enough cash to keep the room another week. When he approached the old man to settle up, he was informed the room had been secured, anonymously, through the end of the year.

He’d grudgingly taken his leave from the old man, and sat in his dank and dingy room fuming and snarling. Obviously he knew who was behind this. The family who thought they knew what was best for him. Thought they could fix him. Thought they could buy him. 

He worked himself into a proper fury and decided a confrontation was needed. 

A grand, explosive, cataclysmic confrontation. And he knew just when to do it. He’d hidden himself out of sight so he could watch as the family gathered at mummy and father’s house on Christmas day. He itched to lunge and attack the moment Mycroft had arrived. He grumbled and growled as each aunt, uncle and cousin made their appearance. 

Just when he’d decided there was a suitable audience, Brandon arrived with his children. The children who bore striking resemblances to their mother. When father opened the front door with a flourish, one of the girls laughed, and Sherlock swore he had heard Leah laugh that same laugh. And his heart was no longer in it; rage having given away to cavernous insecurity and loneliness. Regret warred with the desire to be forgiven in his mind.

There were no witnesses to the tears he shed, the sorrow he’d expressed, as he turned away once more from the home he’d abandoned. He wandered aimlessly for what seemed like hours, until just before dusk he found himself in a vaguely familiar neighborhood, standing in front of a townhouse he knew and loathed.

It was suspiciously too easy for Sherlock to pick the lock and disarm Mycroft’s security system.

He chose to ignore the fact that Mycroft’s refrigerator was fully stocked, though he knew for certain his brother rarely ate at home, and never cooked for himself.

It was purely coincidental that there was an unopened box of Sherlock’s preferred tea next to Mycroft’s kettle. 

Harder to explain was the note in bright red on Mycroft’s calendar, detailing that he would be spending the next two days with mummy and father. Why would Mycroft need to remind himself of that fact? 

Then there was the matter of the pyjamas and sets of warm clothes stored away in the back of Mycroft’s closet. They were a size that Mycroft hadn’t been able to wear for years, though they had new tags still attached. Fortuitous, then, that they were Sherlock’s size. 

A sturdy rucksack, packed with thick socks, gloves and a scarf, a first aid kit, torch, and bars of soap of a brand Mycroft would never touch, also occupied space in the closet.

All of these things Sherlock observed. In the back of his mind palace, in the darkest, most remote corner, he stored away the obvious, sentimental, implications. He labeled them _dangerous_ , slammed and locked the mental door, and then convinced himself he was simply taking advantage of Mycroft’s carelessness in the matter of home security.

Every Christmas since was spent the same way. He braced himself to confront his family. At the reminder of his role in tearing the gaping fissure in his family, he’d retreat to Mycroft’s townhouse.

He’d pack up most of the food, soap and socks, and deliver them to a clever teenage boy who lived rough under a bridge along the Thames. Bill Wiggins he was called. He’d helped Sherlock make connections within the homeless community. Sherlock would give Bill Mycroft’s food, and instruct him to distribute it as he saw fit.

Then, Sherlock would spend the next two days sleeping in Mycroft’s bed, touching all of Mycroft’s priceless things, drinking Mycroft’s alcohol and smoking his cigarettes, and using up all of Mycroft’s hot water.

This year was no different.

With the glaring distinction that Mycroft had not left any cigarettes. He hadn’t quit, Sherlock knew that for certain. Which meant he was withholding them. 

Sherlock considered his next move in this complex game of manipulation. The way he saw it, there was only one option.

It was vindictive, truly malicious.

He readied his needle, dosed himself with just enough chemical peace to let his mind rest, and he climbed into Mycroft’s bed. He was unbathed, filthy, and fully dressed in clothes saturated in the grime of the city.

Mycroft wanted to be petty? Sherlock was more than happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about ready to write to Santa and ask for a new laptop. This whole not being able to post in a timely manner is making me bananas. You guys have been so wonderful, and this story has been received so kindly, and I hate that my schedule is off. I'm doing the best I can with what I have. Just know, you SHALL have your stories!


	16. Christmas Eve, 2005: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Then from each black, accursed mouth_  
>  _The cannon thundered in the South,_  
>  _And with the sound_  
>  _The carols drowned_  
>  _Of peace on earth, good-will to men!_  
>  _It was as if an earthquake rent_  
>  _The hearth-stones of a continent,_  
>  _And made forlorn_  
>  _The households born_  
>  _Of peace on earth, good-will to men!_  
>  _And in despair I bowed my head;_  
>  _"There is no peace on earth," I said;_  
>  _"For hate is strong,_  
>  _And mocks the song_  
>  _Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"_  
>  -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  
> from the poem _"Christmas Bells"_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TRIGGER WARNING***  
> Mention of war related violence. No real description of gore or injuries, but there is a lot of blood. This account is not based on any true events that I could find, but still may negatively effect some readers.

Ordinarily it was exactly the kind of patrol John would have jumped at the opportunity to volunteer for. It had been quiet for days. Nothing suspicious on the horizon. The medics who had accompanied on patrol had only encountered a few minor civilian ailments along the way.

Quiet on the perimeter meant quiet in the camp. And too much quiet made John nervous. Made him feel useless, like his life was just outside the realm of his own control. 

He hated it.

Which was odd, since his entire life to this point had been nothing but fights and noise, mad capers and chaos. John never would have guessed that going to war would afford him days of too much stillness and peace.

It was absolutely mad to bemoan quiet days at war. Completely insane. Quiet days meant that everyone survived another day closer to making it home in one piece. Quiet days meant no death, that humanity triumphed for a few moments more.

The alternative was hell. Plain and simple.

John knew that. He _knew_ it. Lived it. And secretly, because it was a horrible thing to admit of himself, he relished the fact that he _thrived_ in it.

He’d seen things that would haunt him the rest of his days. The blood that ran too freely from the men and women he tried to save had somehow imprinted itself onto him. Their sacrifice surged through his own veins. He needed to be in the heat of it, he needed to spend all of himself saving them.

John could not conceive a single scenario that would see him accepting discharge papers willingly.

He _needed_ this life.

For that reason, he had just gone to search out the patrol leader, hoping none of the other medical team had beaten him to it, when he heard shouting behind him.

“Watson! You’ve got a phone call!”

John spun around, incredulous. He never got calls. There wasn’t anyone _to_ call him.

Only Harry. Oh, God. If Harry was calling, or if the call was about Harry, the news couldn’t be good.

“Says it’s your sister? You have a sister, doc?”

Bloody hell. “Yeah… Yeah, I’ve got a sister.” In a full panic, John sprinted to the waiting call. “Harry? Harry… what’s wrong?” Breathless, John gripped the receiver, afraid his shaking hand would fail him.

There was a soft laugh on the other end of the line. “God, no, sorry John. Sorry… didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Clara?” John released the breath he’d been holding. “Clara, is Harry okay? They said it was about my sister.”

“She’s fine, John. I… I didn’t think they’d let me talk to you if I said I was your sister’s girlfriend.”

“So you told them you’re my sister.” John chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“John… I don’t want to keep you. But, well… I wanted to ask you something…” Clara cleared her throat and hesitated.

“I know this call can’t be cheap,” John encouraged Clara to keep talking.

“Right. You’re right.” She cleared her throat again. “John… I wanted to… I’m going to... “ Clara groaned in frustration. “Ugh, why am I so nervous. _God._ ”

“Oh my God.” John laughed outright. “You’re going to ask Harry to marry you!”

“Yes,” Clara squeaked. “Oh, John… Is it… Is it okay?”

“You’re asking _my_ permission? Since when has Harry ever done anything with anyone’s permission?” His grin was evident in his tone.

“I just wanted to do this… right, you know? You’re all she’s got, and I wanted… needed…” Clara was crying now, but she sounded relieved.

“Clara… Clara, please, stop crying. You’re going to make me cry…” He eyed the soldier using the phone next to him. “And that would be really humiliating.” He laughed again. “Ah, God, Clara. It’s been a good while since I was the only person Harry had. The day she met you, she had all she could ever dream of. Of course I’m fine with this. I’m ecstatic for her, for you!”

“John.” Clara sighed. “John, thank you. And I swear, I will never do anything to hurt her. I love her too much. I just want to take care of her.”

“I know you do, Clara. You’re good for her. She’s so much better with you. I should be thanking you.” There was a commotion just outside right then.

“Doc! Incoming wounded! Suicide bomber during our patrol. We’ve got men down, and there are civilian casualties too.”

John nodded his understanding. “Clara, I’ve got to go. Tell Harry I love her, yeah? And next time you won’t be lying when you tell them it's my sister calling.” John laughed once more, even as he itched to run to the medical tent.

“Happy Christmas John. Be careful, yeah?”

“Always.” John lied as he disconnected the call and ran full tilt to the medical tent.

That had been… “What time is it?” John asked, not directing the question to anyone in particular.

“23:52, Captain.”

John cursed. “Thirteen hours.” He’d lost track of the number of people that time frame represented. “How many?”

“This is number ten, sir. Everyone’s going to make it.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” a nurse whispered.

John grunted. It was hard to believe just thirteen hours ago, he’d been out of his mind with boredom. He cursed himself for wishing for a little action. Sacrifices were made today. Everyone who came across his table was going to make it, but none of them would ever be the same. They would be scarred, some would never be whole again, and all would have emotional damage.

It was just supposed to be a standard patrol. John had intended to go along. Instead they had lost two men at the blast site. At least a dozen civilians were killed.

Never again. He’d never take the peace for granted again.

“Doc?” A medic stuck his head in the door. “When you’re done there, we’ve got one more out here. Civilian, female, approximately twelve years old.”

John cursed again. “All right, I think we’re done here. Tompkins, let’s get the last one in here.” 

He stepped away to get scrubbed up, and when he turned back to the operating area, he was astonished by the sheer amount of blood everywhere he looked. They did their best to keep the operating room sanitary, but while racing the clock, sometimes they didn’t have the option of a deep clean.

All John could see was red.

Literally. 

It was everywhere, contaminating everything. He was covered in it. The other men and women standing around the operating table with him were stained with it. 

What was it he had thought about the life force of those who sacrificed coursing through his own veins? He looked around again. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, before there was so much blood that not only would it seep through his pores and into his veins, but it would eventually drown them all, the weight of it pulling them under.

John closed his eyes and exhaled deeply as the last victim was brought in. “Okay, let’s…” He opened his eyes and took in the sight of the girl. He blanched, and had to turn away.

“Captain?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” He wasn’t. He wasn’t fine. He didn’t think he’d ever be fine again. “Why wasn’t she brought in first?” He growled.

“They only just recovered her, sir.”

There wasn’t anything that could be done. She’d lost too much blood already. Maybe. Maybe if she’d been found earlier, even an hour or two, they could have saved her. By the time she made it to John, all the surgical team could do was try to staunch the blood flow enough to keep her from bleeding out on the already scarlet stained floor.

With every stitch, with every piece of shrapnel removed, John felt despair inch more deeply through his chest. With every breath he willed her to keep breathing, begged her heart to keep pumping. She fought valiantly. Until she just couldn’t any longer.

“01:26,” John called out the time as he stepped back from the operating table. He blinked rapidly in order to keep his emotions at bay. No one else moved, the solemnity overwhelming. 

They stood around the dead girl on the table as they might have around an altar, acutely aware that something sacred had been torn from their hands. The fragility of innocence severed, poured out in sacrifice. A tribute to the gods of war and death.

“Peace on earth, goodwill toward man, my arse.” John looked around at his team. “As long as there are men on earth, there will be war. We don’t have the luxury of waiting on miracles. If a life is going to be lost or saved, it is up to us.” 

John swallowed hard as one of the nurses covered the girl’s body. He turned away quickly as an errant tear broke free. He’d lost patients before. That wasn’t new. And though none had _deserved_ to die, most had either been sick or wounded fighting a war. This girl was the first innocent. A deep sense of injustice settled in his core and he fought the bile that rose up his throat.

He tore away his gloves and scrubbed up quickly. He needed air. He was drowning; it was starting. If he didn’t get out now, he wouldn’t be able to.

A nurse stepped up beside him. “Captain Watson? Happ…”

“No.” He cut her off sharply as he turned away. “It’s not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I had bad days." -John Watson


	17. Christmas Eve, 2008: Harry & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author decides to try a thing, but understands that her lovely readers are far too intelligent to fall for it twice.
> 
> Aka: A very close encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter. It makes me happy.
> 
> Also, canon divergence ahead.

John stumbled out from the noisy, over warm pub into the brisk London night.

No, stumble wasn't quite right. He didn't fall. He was completely upright. He just felt as if his feet had failed to make contact with the ground. As if he were flying, and at any moment he might actually break through the atmosphere and soar away.

He wasn't drunk. Not _exactly._

Tipsy? Maybe. But did thirty-two year old army captains refer to themselves as tipsy? He thought probably not. But a more fitting adjective was not forthcoming. How could he describe this giddy...

Oh, wait. Yes. Giddy. Giddy was perfect. More than just happy. John had felt happiness before, but this was so much more. He was content. Life was amazing. Perfect. He couldn't contain himself.

"Did you just... _giggle,_ Ish?" Harry laughed outright as she elbowed him hard in the side.

"Hmm? No, not me." John grinned back at his sister and wrapped his left arm around her waist.

"You did! We all heard you!" Clara, clearly giddy herself, wrapped her hands around the arm John offered her. He scoffed in response.

"Don't deny it! _You're happy,_ and frankly, it's a little terrifying." Matt MacGregor, who had exited just ahead of them, spun his wheelchair around and smirked deviously at his friend. "God John, look at you. Smiling without coercion. It's a Christmas miracle!"

"And why shouldn't I? Clara just made an honest woman of Harry, I've a new sister, and my best friend is here, even if it is in bits and pieces!" John grinned rakishly as he kissed Harry on the cheek, and then Clara on the forehead.

"John!" Clara swatted his chest, and became suddenly serious. "Be nice to Matt! That's no way to talk about someone who sacrificed for our country." She motioned to him, and winked. "He's clearly unstable."

John, nearly doubled over, couldn't contain his laughter.

"You." Matt pointed at Clara. "I like you." He grinned and looked from Clara to Harry. "I'm happy for you two. Thanks for letting this unstable 'ole invalid tag along to your wedding."

"You're my brother's best friend, and we only have him here for a few days. I don't mind sharing." Harry smiled fondly at John. "Look at you, Ish. All straight lines and polished. That uniform makes you look incredible."

For Harry’s wedding, nontraditional though it was, John had decided to wear his dress uniform. He didn't wear it often, but he had wanted to make certain Harry knew how important he thought this step was for her. How important she was to him.

Harry had initially balked at the idea. "It's casual, John! We're getting married at a pub! Right up on the karaoke stage!" But Clara, ever the voice of reason, saw what the gesture meant to John, and had convinced Harry it might be fun to play dress-up for just one night.

Harry acquiesced, for Clara's sake, and as a result, looked stunning in form fitting burgundy and sequins, her blonde hair softly curled. Clara, in turn, was the very picture of classic beauty in black and silver with her red hair intricately swept up.

Matt, in his well tailored black suit, with the exception of the left trouser leg being being pinned up just below his knee, looked John up and down. "Yep. If I wasn't already married, I might..."

"Oi, you! Shut it!" John laughed as he punched Matt on the shoulder. "How is Joey, anyway? She's what, six months along now?"

Matt nodded. "Bed rest for now. She wanted to come tonight. Maybe you can stop by tomorrow. I know she'd love to see you."

John had started pushing Matt's chair as they strolled along, with no real destination in mind. He looked back to see Harry and Clara completely lost in each other's presence. "I was going to spend the day with Harry since they aren't leaving until the next day, but seems like having someone else around might be a bad idea for everyone. Especially me."

"You might be right." Clara giggled.

"Oh God." John groaned. "It's not like you haven't been living together for years."

"Never been married before though." Harry mumbled as she drew Clara close for a kiss.

John sighed. "Stay with us!" Matt grinned up at him. "We can watch Die Hard and string popcorn, and..."

"No! No stringing popcorn!" John laughed.

They approached an intersection that would ordinarily have been bustling with people, but was nearly deserted, due in part to the late hour on Christmas Eve, and the fact that it was one of the coldest Decembers in recent memory. There was something though, in the atmosphere, that gave them all pause.

It was well past dusk, so the streetlights were glowing. Christmas decorations adorned each post, and stretched across the streets, casting soft multicolored light in every direction. A street vendor was set up on the opposite corner, and the aroma of coffee mingled with the scent of pine and the snow that was threatening to start falling any moment. A tall, ragged looking man stood just ahead of them, playing something haunting and forlorn on a violin.

"Oh," Clara gasped, breathless. "So beautiful."

"Wait here." John whispered, not wanting to disrupt the peace. "I have an idea." He slowly approached the man playing the violin, but stopped a few paces away and waited for him to finish the song. John dropped some money in his case. The other man pulled his well worn cap more securely down, and ignored John's presence.

"That was lovely. Just, brilliant." John cleared his throat to keep from rambling. "I was wondering... Ah, do you take requests?" The other man glanced at him and scoffed.

"It's just... I thought..." John chuckled nervously. "Do you know 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds'?" The other man glared at him with disdain. "No? Okay, well... maybe after you hear it a bit you can play along." Steeling his nerve, John stood a bit taller. He pointed at the bills he'd dropped in the case. "There's more where that came from... If you can keep up." The other man made a deep, rumbling sound like a growl, but John turned and walked away.

"Clara, may I have this dance?" John held his hand out to his new sister. She grinned sheepishly at him and allowed him to lead her out under the soft light of one of the decorations.

"I'm fairly terrible," Clara whispered.

"Me too." John smiled at her and began singing. Matt clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle a surprised laugh, and Harry swiped at the tears threatening to ruin her mascara.

John had just reached the chorus when the sweet strains of the violin joined in and he faltered only briefly. Clara gasped once more. It wasn't the exact melody, but that didn't deter from the timid, fluid beauty. Emboldened, John sang a little louder, with more conviction.

He only stepped on Clara's foot twice. She only stepped on his three times.

When the song ended, John snapped to attention and bowed deeply to his dance partner. Clara giggled and curtsied demurely. With a smile, John swept her into a hug, and kissed her on the cheek.

"I feel just like Clara with her toy soldier, in The Nutcracker!" Clara exclaimed

John barked a laugh. "Oh God, you have no idea."

"You've been practicing!" Matt clapped John on the back with a wink.

"Ish!" Harry was crying, having given up on saving her mascara. "That was..." She threw her arms around her brother. John, embarrassed by the emotions, and to the point of blushing, hugged her back tightly.

"I have something for you too, Harry." He broke the hug and pulled a small crumpled and worn, poorly wrapped package from his coat pocket. "I've had this since the Christmas after you left." Harry inhaled sharply. "We just never..." John looked her in the eyes. "We've never worked it out, you know? There were years you wouldn't have appreciated it. And years I wasn't emotionally ready. But tonight, we're both _here_..."

Harry gingerly took the package and slid the wrapping off. When she opened the little black box, she froze. With a sob, she stepped forward and would have collapsed, had it not been for John’s support.

"I found it." John whispered. "At a pawn shop not too far from the old flat." He was crying now too. "I saved and saved for it. He didn't even... he didn't take the pictures out when he sold it. They're still..."

Harry's hands trembled as she lifted the silver locket and let the box fall to the ground. She was shaking too badly to open it, so John did it for her. Still inside was the picture of mum and her real father, and the one of her holding baby John. She brought the locket up to her lips and kissed it tenderly. "Ish. Oh, Ish." Overcome, she collapsed against him and wept once more.

"Is it... It's okay, Harry?" John mumbled into her hair. She nodded against his shoulder and pulled back to look at him. "I promised, Harry." He took the locket from her, and fastened it around her neck. "I promised I would get you a better one."

"Ish... I can't believe... I..." Harry bit her lower lip and glanced over to where Clara and Matt had gone to get coffee, giving the siblings space. "Ish, what if I..."

He shushed her and hugged her tight. "You deserve good things, Harry."

"I don't. I've done so many things..." Her voice broke.

John considered his words carefully. Just as he was about to speak, the violin started up once more, "I'll Be Home For Christmas." It was familiar and lovely, though there was a tremulous undertone of loneliness that John thought he knew all too well. He and Harry swayed to the music, wrapped in the warmth of the embrace.

"Harry, I always wanted to be home for you. I wanted you to come back to me, so we could take care of each other, the way we use to when we were kids." Harry sniffed and buried her face in John's chest. "But that was my idea of home, and you had to find your own way. I think Clara's it for you. I think you found home. And," John’s voice wavered as he fought back the tears, "I am happy for you. And God, _so_ proud of you."

They stayed there, almost dancing, but mostly just desperately clinging to each other until the song came to a gentle end. "What about you, Ish?" Harry placed a hand on his cheek. "Where's home for you?"

John shrugged and ducked his head. "I always thought the army would be, but I just don't know. I haven't found it yet." He looked back up into Harry's eyes, his own eyes glistening. "But if a wildebeest like you can find home, surely there's hope for someone like me."

With a gasp, Harry playfully smacked John’s face. "You just had to go and ruin it, didn't you?" She laughed and shoved him away.

"Are we done with all the touchy feely now?" Matt and Clara approached cautiously. Clara carried a tray of coffees. "We're freezing, and I think Clara's anxious to get _someone_ home." Matt winked up at her. Clara hip checked him, but giggled.

"Yeah, okay. Give me a minute though, I need to take care of something." John took one of the coffees and approached the man with the violin. He was leaning against a building so that his face was mostly obscured by shadows, smoking a cigarette.

"So... thanks." John dug for his wallet and pulled a few more bills out. "That was beautiful. Perfect." He tried to hand the money to the man, but he flicked his cigarette in the direction of the violin case. John shrugged and dropped the money in. "It's cold, you want some coffee?" The other man shrugged. John noticed how threadbare and ragged the man's coat really was, and the fact that he was entirely too thin for his height.

"Okay... well, here." John stepped up directly beside the man and sat the coffee at his feet. The other man made a surprised sound and stared as John removed his own scarf and took his gloves from his pocket. "I'll be heading back to the sandbox in a few days, won't really need these once I'm there." He held them out for the man to take. "It's okay. I'm John. I'm a doctor. Army surgeon, actually. I'm not going to try anything."

The other man stayed frozen, his cigarette dangled between two fingers, halfway to his mouth.

"I'll just... leave these here then..." John placed the scarf and gloves in the violin case and turned to go.

"William." The other man spoke softly, his voice rough. He stepped directly up to John, though still in the shadows, and stuck out his hand. "I'm William. Th-thanks. For the..." He nodded to the case.

John shook William's hand with a smile. "Happy Christmas, William." William scoffed. "Hm. Usually I would agree with you." John laughed and turned away. "But nothing on earth can ruin tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait for it... Waaait for it...
> 
> (Also, in case you're wondering, Matt decided to follow John to the military, and was injured in his second tour. He lost his leg, and suffered spinal trauma, all of which is actually detailed a little better in my story "Crucial," which is part of the Essential-verse. AND, Matt and Joey got married. Yay!)


	18. Christmas Eve, 2008: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, Sherlock's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves for a chapter dump today. I'm TRYING to get caught up. We'll see. My technology woes are kicking my butt.

The people who dropped money in his case were unbearable. Every. Single. One. But it was of a necessity that he played on the street at all.

The problems Sherlock helped people with often resulted in compensation, many of them in actual cash rather than just favors (also infinitely useful). But, depending on the week, the type of problems he solved, and the number of little glass vials deemed necessary for survival, funds for trivial things like sustenance and rent were often left lacking. Sherlock discovered quickly enough that he could make up the difference with his violin.

He also discovered people were more generous during this, the "season of giving." The generosity, as he had seen time and again, was often not motivated by concern for his well being as a fellow human being. No, the "generosity" almost always stemmed from a desperate need to assuage the giver's personal feelings of guilt or inadequacy. Not that the reason mattered to him in the least. Money in his case was money all the same. 

What made the people unbearable was that in their plebeian simplicity, he could see his own guilt, his own loneliness, his own need. And he hated them for it, even as they gathered around him in appreciation, spouted out nearly sincere platitudes and praises, and carelessly tossed life sustaining coins into his case.

He heard the group approaching from a block away. Laughing. Celebrating. Definitely alcohol induced merriment. All the hallmarks of a perfectly decent holiday celebration. Surely Sherlock could rectify the situation, pull them from their reveling, elicit some of the guilt induced generosity. He played a piece of his own composition, knowing full well the minor key and the pacing added to the haunting, melancholic nature of the tune. As the small party drew near, their laughter faded, and they paused to observe him playing.

Uncertain if it was boldness or curiosity, Sherlock was taken aback when one of the party stepped toward him, stopped only a few paces away, dropped several bills in his case, and waited for the piece to end. Unnerved by the man's expression of genuine appreciation, he cut the piece short. There was something vaguely familiar about this man, but he couldn't place him. Like someone from a nightmare. Just in case, he pulled his cap more firmly down over his eyes, and pretended he hadn't noticed his approach.

"That was lovely. Just, brilliant." The man, a soldier, specifically a captain, if his pressed and polished uniform was to be believed, cleared his throat in an obvious effort to keep from rambling. "I was wondering... Ah, do you take requests?" Sherlock glanced at him and scoffed. Definitely not curiosity then. 

"It's just... I thought..." The soldier chuckled nervously. "Do you know 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds'?" Sherlock glared at him with disdain, willing him to understand just how ludicrous the request sounded. Clearly boldness and stupidity looked like the same thing on some people. "No? Okay, well... maybe after you hear it a bit you can play along." Visibly gathering his nerve, the soldier stood a bit straighter, his fixed gaze giving him the appearance of being rather imposing, and much taller than his actual height. He pointed at the bills he'd dropped in the case and issued a challenge. "There's more where that came from... If you can keep up." Stunned at this turn of events, Sherlock could do little more than growl as the soldier turned smartly and walked away.

Sherlock mumbled to himself about idiots, and pedestrian pop drivel, and moronic, dimwitted soldiers who reminded him of days past with their stupid commonly familiar looking faces. He considered packing up his violin and leaving right then, when the moronic, dimwitted soldier did the one thing he never expected.

He proved himself vastly more fascinating than any other human being he'd ever encountered.

The soldier led one of the women in his party (not his lover, and they had no facial traits in common, so not a direct relative; perhaps a friend, or a spouse of someone close) out to a more broad portion of the sidewalk. They stood as if to dance, though both demonstrated exceptionally poor form, and the soldier began to sing. His voice was clear though timid, and there was something very pure in the innocence. By no means an accomplished vocalist, the performance was surprising in its beauty. Sherlock found himself lost as the scene played out before him. This man obviously cared for this woman, and was going to great lengths show it. Their dancing was atrocious but lighthearted, and the failures easily forgiven as they were overshadowed by the loveliness of the soldier's singing.

Sherlock did not know the song, had never heard the lyrics, nor did he even remotely recognize the melody. But as the soldier continued singing, as his fascination grew, Sherlock could not deny the pull. He needed to play along, to accompany this captivating anomaly. It was easy enough to pick out the key and some of the progressions, so Sherlock improvised, gently at first. The soldier's voice faltered a moment, and he glanced at him with a smirk, which only compelled Sherlock to play more boldly, clearly accepting the challenge. Twirling his dance partner awkwardly, the soldier's singing became more spirited. Unaccustomed to following another's lead, Sherlock found himself captivated by the nuance of the unusual song, desperate to _keep up,_ as if his life depended on it.

All too soon the song ended, and Sherlock drew in a deep breath. He felt... anxious. Why anxious? He was an accomplished musician, and he had never needed anyone's approval before. There had never been anyone whose approval mattered. But for some reason he needed to know, more than he had ever needed anything, if his attempt to _keep up_ had garnered any sort of reaction. It wasn't even about the money. He'd give the money back in a heartbeat. He just needed to _know._

The soldier was standing with his back to Sherlock now. He was talking softly to the other woman (similar facial features, possible sibling, though they only shared one parent) in his group. They were hugging and crying, and the soldier's stance was one of strength and protection. As Sherlock stared at the back of the man's head, he remembered. The memory was fuzzy, yet gut wrenching. This man was there _that_ day. The day Leah... He was the doctor who saved the man who had killed her. Sherlock was sure of it, despite the fact that he'd been high when he'd assaulted the man. He recognized that stance, the soft way he spoke. He was older, _looked_ world weary, as if he had seen too much. He carried himself with more confidence, learned and practiced though it was.

And he hadn't recognized Sherlock. Not yet, anyway. Sherlock wasn't about to allow him to either. He stepped back into a shadow, and observed.

The pair before him, definitely brother and sister, were reliving some part of their shared past. There was pain in their body language, years of loneliness and abandonment played out before Sherlock's eyes, and it was all too familiar. Perhaps not the same story as his own, but he understood well enough. His own heart clenched as he watched this tearful reconciliation. He longed for what they had found, and envied the love he saw there. Without thinking too deeply about the implications, Sherlock began playing the only song that seemed appropriate, "I'll Be Home For Christmas." Perhaps it was maudlin, but that mattered little as he poured his own heartache, his sense of loss, his fears and insecurities, and every ounce of his being, into the song. It was a sacrifice of himself, made in reparation for the past, whatever that may have entailed.

Sherlock watched intently as he finished the song, and the small group drew back together in laughter. He thought perhaps he had been forgotten, and rather like a petulant six year-old version of himself, slumped against the brick wall behind him to pout and smoke. He had closed his eyes, and was willing away the emotional onslaught the encounter had initiated when he heard the soldier's approach. He shifted more deeply into the cover of shadow, but opened his eyes to see what would happen next.

"So... thanks." The soldier dug for his wallet and pulled a few more bills out. "That was beautiful. Perfect." It was all Sherlock could do to keep himself from preening at the praise. The soldier tried to hand him the money, but he coolly flicked his cigarette in the direction of the violin case, in an effort to keep his distance, and therefore preserve his identity. The other man shrugged and dropped the money in the case. "It's cold, you want some coffee?" Sherlock shrugged, and winced as he realized this other, fascinating man, was now taking in every visible aspect of his appearance, studying his bare hands, his threadbare coat and clothing, and no doubt, in his medical training, was assessing his health. He shifted minutely, uncomfortable with being the one on the receiving end of the scrutiny.

"Okay... well, here." The solder stepped up directly beside Sherlock and sat the coffee at his feet. To Sherlock's astonishment, the other man removed his own scarf and took his gloves from his pocket. "I'll be heading back to the sandbox in a few days, won't really need these once I'm there." He held them out for Sherlock to take. "It's okay. I'm John. I'm a doctor. Army surgeon, actually. I'm not going to try anything."

Sherlock froze, stunned, his cigarette dangled between two fingers, halfway to his mouth. He'd received handouts before, certainly. He was busking on street corners, for godsake. And his family had manipulated him into taking their charity. But never, not once, had anyone ever given him something of themselves, simply out of concern for his well being. It wasn't pity. Sherlock was certain of that. It was, he thought, genuine compassion. This man, this doctor and soldier, legitimately seemed to care. Sherlock was speechless. Well and truly lost for words.

"I'll just... leave these here then..." John placed the scarf and gloves in the violin case and turned to go.

"William." Sherlock forced himself to respond, his voice rough. He stepped directly up to John, careful to remain in the shadows, and stuck out his hand, uncertain at what motivation compelled him. "I'm William. Th-thanks. For the..." He nodded to the case.

John shook his hand with a smile that caused his brilliant eyes to glisten. "Happy Christmas, William." Sherlock scoffed at the sentiment. "Hm. Usually I would agree with you." John laughed and turned away. "But nothing on earth can ruin tonight."

Sherlock watched the group go. The cold of the night air seemed oppressive in their absence, and suddenly he was overcome with a deep sense of loneliness. He picked up the blue scarf from his case, and wondered if it had been a gift that someone had given to the soldier. To _John._ The color suited him. Sherlock wound the scarf around his own neck, slid his frozen hands into the gloves, and shoved the cash into his coat pocket.

 _There's got to be more,_ Sherlock mused to himself. There had to be more to life than hollow emptiness, than anguished loneliness, than puzzles and problems, and looking in from the outside. He snapped his violin into its case, and glanced around for a payphone. Pulling the worn business card from his pocket, Sherlock dialed the number before he lost his nerve. It rang twice, and he almost hung up.

"Lestrade," the voice on the other end of the line was cheerful, and loud tinny Christmas music blared in the background.

"Detective Inspector, this is Sherlock Holmes." 

"Sher... Oh yeah, Sherlock. Hey kid. Sorry, no mysteries on tonight. Criminals must be taking a break for the holidays." Lestrade's cheerfulness seemed forced. "So, call me in a few days, yeah? I'm sure..."

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock interrupted. "That's not why I'm calling. I... I need help."

"Turn that down, will you," Lestrade hissed to someone. "Sherlock, you okay? You in trouble? Where are you, I'll come get you."

"Nothing's wrong. Not... Well, yes. Everything is wrong. No trouble. I'm sorry... sorry to bother you. I'll just go..." His confidence gone, Sherlock lost his nerve.

"Is it time?" Ever so gently, Lestrade prodded. "You ready now?"

"Yeah... I am. I think I'm ready to get clean now. It's... It's time." Sherlock sniffed and cleared his throat.

"Where are you, Sherlock?" Sherlock could hear Lestrade shuffling papers around, and spouted off his location when the D.I. was ready. "Okay, Sherlock. Hang tight. I'll be right there."

"Thank you, Detective." Sherlock hung up the phone and wandered to a nearby bench to wait. He pulled the wallet from his pocket and flipped it open in order to sift through its contents. Perhaps it was wrong. No, it really was wrong. Definitely not the right way to start this new chapter of his life. But he'd needed more information, and this was the easiest way he knew to obtain it. He was not disappointed. The first item his eyes landed on was a military identification card. If he was going to upend his life because of the influence of this peculiar man, Sherlock would need to know everything about Captain John H. Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Famous last words, John. Famous last words.
> 
> Also... blue scarf.
> 
> And yeah, so now, things are going to get a little interesting. The characters are going to stay nearly as similar as to how we see them on screen, but obviously the story is going to diverge. Some of the bits you'll recognize from canon/the show. Others will mesh a little more with stories in my Essential-verse (though you won't really have to read those to understand what goes on here).


	19. Christmas Day, 2010: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's so fluffy, I'm gonna die!_
> 
>  
> 
> No, actually. No one dies for once. It's a lovely change of pace.
> 
> AND, Greg. ♡♡♡ That is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters is the goal again for today.

"Sherlock, it's Christmas day. Please..." Lestrade was very nearly begging.

“' _Christmas is a poor excuse every 25th of December to pick a man's pockets._ '” Sherlock assumed his most haughty, put upon tone.

"Okay, first of all, don't quote literature at me. I will quote you under the table. Second, that quote hardly applies to this situation. There's nothing I can do about the fact that no one has been murdered in the past twenty four hours..."

"No one that you _know_ about." The petulant consulting detective snipped.

"Right. No one that I know about." Lestrade sighed. "And third, _you_ picked _my_ pocket just last Christmas!"

"Irrelevant. Surely you must have _something_ I can work on for you. Perhaps some cold cases? Clear your desk before the end of the year?" Sherlock decided to go the way of manipulation, speak to Lestrade's sensible side.

"As tempting as that is, and it is, trust me." Lestrade dropped his voice to a whisper. " _The in-laws are here._ I just cannot leave right now. We're getting ready to sit down to dinner."

"Perhaps you've some files at home with you then? You're an ambitious man." Flattery, then. Appeal to the ego. "Anything there at the house I can work on?"

"Well, yeah, maybe..." Sherlock could hear Lestrade's resolve cracking. He could also hear Lestrade's wife nagging in the background, fussing about potatoes, and napkin rings, and not letting obnoxious, presumptuous freaks anywhere near her house on _bloody Christmas day._ The doorbell chimed in the background. "Judas priest. Doesn't anyone celebrate Christmas at home anymore?" Greg huffed. "Just a minute Sherlock." He shuffled the mobile away from his mouth, and opened the door.

" _God._ No." Lestrade slammed the door shut, flipped the deadbolt, and leaned back against it in frustration. He put the mobile back to his ear. "Please tell me I've suffered some sort of mind altering brain trauma, and that I did not just see you standing on the other side of my front door."

"I'm sure I don't know. _Have_ you suffered a concussion, Graham?"

"It's Greg, and you know it!" Making a great show of opening the door so he could yell, Lestrade stopped short at the sight of Sherlock batting his eyes innocently. "Arse," he hissed and stepped aside to let Sherlock enter. "I've some files on my desk upstairs. I'll get them, You... Stay. Here. Do not move."

"Very well." Rocking up onto the balls of his feet and clasping his hands in front of him, Sherlock glanced around the front room with raised eyebrows. The room was decorated garishly with an abundance of tinsel, pink fairy lights, and baubles dubious in their actual relation to the nature of the holiday being celebrated. A trail of toys and torn wrapping paper had made its way in from the sitting room. He shifted slightly so he could see into the other room. "I didn't know you had children. How did I miss that?"

"Ah, nope. _No._ " Lestrade stepped into his line of sight. "You stay right here. And they're the nieces and nephews, if you must know. But that would've been grand, yeah? Keeping _that_ secret from the _great_ Sherlock Holmes." He smiled smugly and pointed to the patch of floor where Sherlock was standing. "Do not move from that spot. Do you hear me?"

"You could have been back by now, you know." Sherlock smirked 

Lestrade scrubbed his hand over his face. "Right... Right." He put one hand on the banister and started up the steps. He suddenly stopped and turned back. "I'm serious, Sherlock. I think my wife might actually leave me if she sees you here."

"When she leaves, I will have had nothing to do with it. Your bachelor neighbor to the left, on the other hand..." Sherlock called up the stairs after him. Lestrade paused, straightened his shoulders, and then with a sigh continued up to his office.

Three minutes.

Lestrade couldn't have been gone more than three minutes. Jogging down the steps, the first thing he noticed was the glaringly obvious empty entryway. The second thing he noticed was the rumbling baritone whispers followed up by childish giggles and shrieks. "C'mon, Sherlock. I thought..." Lestrade stopped short has he stepped from the stairway and into the front room. "Bloody hell..." He stood and stared a moment and then snorted. "What..."

Sherlock was seated, cross legged, in the middle of the floor. He was effectively tied up with no less than two jump ropes. There was an eye patch adorned with a little skull and cross bones over his left eye, fairy wings clipped to the back of his coat, all manner of plastic costume jewelry dangled from him, and the smallest of the nieces, Sophia, was placing a tiara, complete with twinkling pink and purple lights, atop his head.

"Are you a detective like uncle Greg?" One of the children, Troy, asked as he poked Sherlock repeatedly with a plastic pirate sword.

"Ah, no. Not like uncle Greg." He winked conspiratorially and whispered, " _I'm much cleverer._ " The children all giggled at that.

"If you wanted to be a pirate when you were a kid, why didn't you?" Annaleigh, the oldest niece, asked as she affixed a toy parrot to Sherlock's shoulder. He watched her intently.

"Every pirate captain must have a brave first mate," Sherlock explained, very seriously. The children nodded knowingly at that. "I just haven't found the right one yet. I have a lead, so maybe it won't be too long..."

"Is it uncle Greg?" Sophia stood directly in front of Sherlock, and clapped her hands excitedly.

"Well, uhm, I don't..." Sherlock, in a rare instance of panic, faltered.

"Well you see, I can't be a pirate." Lestrade took a few more steps into the room, and crossed his arms over his chest. The children looked at him questioningly, and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "I'm a police officer. I catch the bad guys, and pirates are the _most_ bad guys."

"But... Don't you like going on adventures?" Troy struck a made-up fencing pose and slashed his sword through the air.

"I do love a good adventure, but... Can I tell you a secret?" Lestrade leaned in, and the children gathered in close. "Boats make me seasick." The children giggled. "It's true. If I even look at a boat, it makes me want to..." Clapping a hand over his mouth, Lestrade made a show of gagging and pretending that he was going to be ill. The children shrieked and dove behind Sherlock for cover. "So you see, I would be a terrible first mate, always having to clean up messes!" The children giggled, and to Lestrade's surprise, so did Sherlock.

"That is excellent information to have, Gavin." Sherlock grinned.

"His name is uncle Greg, silly." Sophia threw her arms around Sherlock's neck in a hug.

"Yeah, silly." Lestrade huffed a laugh."So, what _exactly_ is happening here?" He waved his hand up and down at Sherlock.

"Ah, yes. We are playing Fairy Pira..." Sherlock, fixing a fake look of uncertainty on his face, looked to Sophia who spoke over top of him.

"Fairy Pirate Princess Scary Christmas Adventure!" The little girl announced proudly.

"Fairy Pirate Princess Scary Christmas Adventure!" Troy and Annaleigh chanted as they jumped around excitedly.

"Fairy Pirate Princess Scary..." Lestrade repeated slowly.

"...Christmas Adventure. Yes." Sherlock shrugged. "The rules seem a bit ambiguous, and I'm not exactly clear on what winning entails, but you are welcome to join us."

"Tempting." With a laugh, Lestrade scrubbed his hand over his face. "But dinner is soon, guys."

A chorus of "Awww" was the disappointed response.

"Are you going to stay for dinner?" Troy asked and poked Sherlock in the chest with his sword.

"Ah, I uhm..." Sherlock cleared his throat and glanced at the files in Lestrade's hand. "I really ought to go."

"No, you _have_ to stay! Christmas will be ruined if you don't!" Annaleigh leaned against Sherlock's shoulder and patted his curls with a giggle.

"Please, uncle Greg. Make him stay!" Sophia wrapped her arms around Lestrade's leg, and looked up at him pleadingly.

Lestrade groaned and looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen. He looked back at Sherlock with a sigh. "Look, Sherlock, you understand..."

" _Greg._ It's fine." Sherlock nodded, though he bit his lip and looked away. "Sorry, guys, I really do need to..."

"You'll have to sit at the kiddie table." Greg's shoulders drooped as he glanced toward the kitchen once more, though he smiled warmly at Sherlock.

"Oh, yay!" Sophia shouted as she hugged Lestrade once more. She turned and joyfully kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "You'll sit next to me!" 

Sherlock laughed, and then looked up at Lestrade. "If you're sure... It's not why I came here..."

"We have plenty. And no one needs to be alone on Christmas." Lestrade tipped his head in the direction of the kitchen "I'll pay for this later, but she'll get over it."

Cocking an eyebrow, Sherlock hummed. "She may not..." He was interrupted by an alert pinging on his mobile. Looking to Troy, Sherlock raised his elbow to give access to his coat pocket. "Would you mind? I'm a little tied up at the moment." With a giggle, Troy retrieved the mobile and held it up for Sherlock to read. Eyes gone wide, Sherlock scrambled to stand, and shook himself free from the jump ropes.

"Terribly sorry everyone, but it seems I really must go." Sherlock retrieved the mobile, scrolled a few times, shoved it in his pocket and began removing his costume jewelry.

"Nooo!" The children pouted. 

"Don't you _want_ to play Fairy Pirate Princess Scary Christmas Adventure with us? And sit by me at dinner?" Sophia looked up at him, her little chin quivering.

Sherlock lowered himself to his knees in front of the little girl. "Of course I do." He reached back and pulled the fairy wings off his coat so that he could clip them to Sophia's dress. He removed the tiara, which he placed on Annaleigh's head, and handed the parrot and eye patch dutifully to Troy. His mobile pinged again. He pulled it out, skimmed the alert, and dropped it back into his pocket. "But I've just received notice that the first mate I've been looking for might be available. So you see, I really _must_ go. Do you understand?"

"Brilliant!" Troy exclaimed. He poked Sherlock once more with his sword. "If you find him, bring him over, yeah? "

"It may not be today." Sherlock stood and brushed off his knees.

"Do you think he will play Fairy Pirate Princess Scary Christmas Adventure with us, when you do find him?" Annaleigh asked, and she wrung her hands hopefully.

"Well, we'll just have to make sure of it, won't we?" Sherlock smiled down at her and turned toward the door.

"Wait!" Sophia ran up to Sherlock to hug his knees, but he scooped her up into his arms instead. "Happy Christmas!" She hugged his neck and kissed his cheek.

"And to you, Sophia." Sherlock smiled, and set her back down. He turned to Lestrade who held up the files. "Right, uhm, I'll take a look at them some other time. I need to..."

Lestrade walked with Sherlock to the door. "You come here, on Christmas, get the kids all wound up, and now you're blustering out the door like a mad man." He acted as if he were put out, but there was laughter in his voice. "What's going on, Sherlock?" 

With a smirk, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, flashed his mobile at Lestrade, and rushed out the door. "The game is on, Geoff!" 

"It's Greg!" Lestrade shouted after him. "Happy Christmas, you mad idiot!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Have you suffered a concussion..."_ [notjustmom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom) started it. It's a whole thing. Go read [Eudaemonic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5460602). It's fluffy and tooth-achingly sweet.


	20. Christmas Day, 2010: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John posts a blog entry. 
> 
> Yeah, we all know what that means.
> 
> *Please note, my timeline will differ a little from the show. AU, and all. But I'm sticking with John & Sherlock meeting in the January after John's first blog posts.*

_THE PERSONAL BLOG OF_  
**DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

* * *

**25 December, 2010**

**WHAT'S THE POINT**

My therapist gave me a "writing prompt" for today. I'm supposed to tell you about a favorite Christmas memory from my childhood.

There are none.

My alcoholic father spent every Christmas in a drunken rage hurling verbal abuse. The Christmas I was 10 was the first time the abuse stopped being simply emotional, and started leaving physical marks.

He dropped dead the Christmas I was 17. Maybe that should be my best memory, you think, Ella?

What is the point of all of this? Nobody cared then, and nobody cares now.

I'm definitely deleting this later.

* * *

**COMMENTS**

**Harry Watson** 25 December, 2010

sry johnny. ur thing sounded like a bore. who really wants to spend xmas with a bunch of lonely old invalided soldiers anyway? i know about a party later. wanna come?

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

Drunk already Harry? It's not even noon. 

Also, lonely old invalided soldier right here. Thanks for that.

* * *

**Harry Watson** 25 December, 2010

u kno what i mean.

come w me 2nite! it'll be fun! not like last year with... oh, u kno.

* * *

**Hi_Its_Clara** 25 December, 2010

Harry? Please. Answer your phone.

* * *

**Harry Watson** 25 December, 2010

_Comment deleted by administrator_

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

Sorry about that, Clara. How are you?

* * *

**Hi_Its_Clara** 25 December, 2010

John, I'm sorry too. Is there still time to go to the veterans thing? I'd like to go with you.

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

It's okay Clara. I didn't really want to go anyway. You should just enjoy your day, and forget about us. 

Watsons have a way of ruining everything.

* * *

**Harry Watson** 25 December, 2010

speak for urself. i'm not really a watson.

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

You're more like him than I ever was.

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

Harry?

Sorry.

* * *

**Muggle_Matt** 25 December, 2010

Is it really you, John? Oh my god. Where are you? Are you in London? What happened?

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

You could've used your real name Matt. This blog doesn't have enough followers for MacGregor to be an issue.

* * *

**Muggle_Matt** 25 December, 2010

You bloody idiot. Stop deflecting. Where are you?

* * *

**Bill Murray** 25 December, 2010

Watson? Why weren't you there today? A few of the other guys were looking for ya.

Awful bleak, mate. Don't do something stupid. Call me, yeah?

* * *

**Muggle_Matt** 25 December, 2010

John? Please.

* * *

**E Thompson** 25 December, 2010

John, I'm concerned about this. Let's have an emergency session tomorrow.

* * *

**Wm_the_Gr8** 25 December, 2010

Is that your therapist? The one who suggested this exercise in self hate? She's a moron, and you should get rid of her.

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

I suppose you could do better.

* * *

**Wm_the_Gr8** 25 December, 2010

Most definitely.

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

Do I know you?

* * *

**E Thompson** 25 December, 2010

 **@Wm_the_Gr8** \- I am a licensed therapist. John, I would advise you to block and ignore this user.

* * *

**Wm_the_Gr8** 25 December, 2010

See? Moron. And petty.

* * *

**Muggle_Matt** 25 December, 2010

Stop being an arse and answer me already, John. I miss you! Joey misses you!

* * *

**John Watson** 25 December, 2010

I'm sorry to have upset everyone. I'll be deleting this soon anyway.

* * *

**Muggle_Matt** 25 December, 2010

John.

* * *

**E Thompson** 25 December, 2010

Tomorrow, regular time.

* * *

**Wm_the_Gr8** 25 December, 2010

Waste of time.

* * *

**Muggle_Matt** 27 December, 2010

John.

* * *

**Harry Watson** 28 December, 2010

u can be a right arse u kno that?

* * *

**Muggle_Matt** 31 December, 2010

John. Please, just let me know you're alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wm_The_Gr8... hmmm... sneaky...
> 
> Methinks someone receives update notices on their mobile any time a certain army doctor posts on his blog.


	21. Christmas Day, 2011: Sherlock & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you read that correctly.
> 
> But first Christmases aren't always what they're expected to be. Especially when Irene Adler winds up dead the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two idiots. *sigh*

Wrapping his dressing gown more securely around himself in an attempt to stave off the chill that had settled on the flat, Sherlock stepped cautiously from his room. 

He'd spent hours... Was it _only_ hours? He hoped so. Hoped he hadn't lost days... Ordering and reordering major sections of the mind palace after the events of the prior evening.

He'd humiliated Molly. No, not humiliated, _decimated_ her. It wasn't so much her emotional state after the verbal assault that made him store the information away. It was the fact that Molly had become necessary to his work, and alienating her was counterproductive. Therefore, he needed to remember to treat her less harshly than he was wont to treat others.

Then there was Mycroft. He'd called him partly due to his access to unlimited resources, but if he were honest, he had really just wanted to interrupt his brother from whatever holiday festivities he might have been partaking in. He hadn't been surprised when Mycroft was waiting for him at the morgue. Nor was he shocked when his brother had offered him a cigarette and a few hollow, bleak platitudes about the futility of caring. He was loathe to admit, however, that he had been hurt upon parting ways with Mycroft when, after wishing him "Happy Christmas, _My_ croft," his brother had offered a paltry and rehearsed "And a Happy New Year." He'd genuinely hoped to spark a sentimental recollection, that Mycroft would let down his guard, and reveal, with a simple "Happy Christmas, little brother" that _any_ connection to their past closeness had survived the years and animosity between them. The experiment had failed, and Sherlock had rearranged and deleted a great deal of emotional... _data..._ relating to his brother.

A rather larger than he'd expected amount of data needed to be rearranged in regards to the Woman. She had proved to be his most difficult puzzle, a true conundrum. The problem was not that she had beguiled or confounded his sensibilities, as he _knew_ John believed, and as he _suspected_ Irene herself had believed. No, the real problem was that Sherlock had never met another person whose thought process so closely matched his own, and yet they were so different. He was pure logic, and she seemed to operate purely in the sensual; how was it they could both then reach the same conclusions? Since there were parts of himself he failed to understand even now, there was little hope he'd be able to understand those parts of Irene. It was infuriating. Especially since he recognized with 97.8% certainty that the body he had identified was likely not actually that of Ms. Adler. He'd said it was her because she'd obviously had a reason for faking her death. There was also the more selfish motivation that were she still alive, she would be in his debt, and to be owed a favor by someone who traded in secrets could prove to be infinitely useful.

Sherlock glanced around the kitchen. The flat seemed... different. Darker, somehow. It was clearly dusk, so the day was nearly spent, but that was not what he was noticing. He couldn't put his finger on the difference, but there _was_ something different.

The kitchen table was clear with the exception of his microscope, a case of clean slides, and a rack of sterilized test tubes. No experiments...

Because the table had looked different the evening before. Sherlock squinted as he examined the work space. One of Mrs. Hudson's garishly festive clothes had adorned the table, which had then been laden with a variety of hors d'oeuvres and holiday sweets. John had made Sherlock put away his equipment. The table cloth had still been in place when he'd returned to the flat last night. Someone had put it away and taken great care to place the microscope in the precise spot he normally kept it.

Sherlock frowned slightly. Mrs. Hudson was clever, but he doubted that she cared one ounce about the placement of his microscope.

Pressing his fingers to his mouth, Sherlock stepped into the sitting room and glanced around. Mrs. Hudson had insisted they decorate properly for the party. Sherlock had insisted he did not want to fuss with a tree. John had kept the peace by obtaining an abundance of garlands and fairy lights. Something warm and reminiscent had stirred deep within him when he'd seen the flat glowing cheerfully with the fairy lights. He'd secretly loved it, though he'd made sure John, and anyone else who would listen, knew how indifferent he was to such nonsense.

It was gone. All of it. Every last garland, every single fairy light. Gone. Even the seasonal floral arrangement a client had sent was missing.

That explained the shift in lighting then. A few lamps were turned on, but the overall warmth and ambiance was lacking. As he turned to take in every part of the room, he couldn't help but wonder, wasn't it, in fact, still Christmas day? Who would take down Christmas decorations _on..._ "John." Sherlock started when he noticed his flatmate tucked comfortably into his armchair.

John had been reading, though it was rather obvious as he lowered his book that he'd been watching Sherlock from the moment he'd entered the room. "Afternoon. Or, well, evening." John shifted to look out the window and then checked his watch, as if he'd also lost track of the time. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, he clearly hadn't shaved or showered since yesterday morning, and Sherlock was fairly certain he was still wearing the clothes he'd worn for the party.

"What day is it?" Sherlock looked around the flat once more.

John closed his book and placed it on the side table. "Sunday."

"But it's still..."

"Christmas? Yeah." John stood and stretched again. He picked up the two mugs that were sitting on the little table. Sherlock realized both the kettle and the coffee maker were sitting out on the counter. John had been drinking both coffee and tea. "Tea?" John called from the kitchen. Sherlock hadn't realized he'd even walked past him.

"Hmm? Oh, yes please." Sherlock followed John to the kitchen, and leaned against the doorway. John started the kettle, turned and leaned back against the counter.

"So..." John began.

Sherlock spoke at the same time. "You took down the decorations."

"Oh, yeah. You didn't seem to care for them. Figured, after everything, you'd be ready to get back to some normalcy." John shrugged and tried to stifle a yawn.

"But it is still Christmas?" It was intended as an observation, but came out as a question. Sherlock furrowed his brow and glanced around the flat yet again. John nodded. "You could've left it up. If you'd wanted. I wouldn't have minded..."

John stared back at him, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "Okay." He shrugged. "I don't really mind either way." The kettle clicked off then, and John turned to make their tea. "Never really celebrated Christmas much in the past." He retrieved the milk from the refrigerator, and sniffed it out of sheer force of habit before adding it to their cups. "The leftover food from the party's in there, or I ordered a take away from that Chinese place down the block, if you're hungry."

Sherlock knew John hadn't had many happy Christmases. He knew about his father. Had been able to find out that John had stayed on campus for every Christmas during university. Sherlock himself had ruined one of John's Christmases, years before they actually met. And then there was the time at war, which Sherlock couldn't imagine anyone would enjoy. He knew all of this, and thought it was time John learn to celebrate properly. It's the reason he'd planted the idea for the party in Mrs. Hudson's mind months ago, so that she could suggest her grand idea to John. But he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying so. They'd not even known each other a full year. Well, John hadn't know Sherlock a full year, anyway. It was too soon to reveal the truth. 

John would leave for certain.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Are there any..."

John pulled one of Mrs. Hudson's biscuit tins from the cupboard, removed the lid, and had it on the table before Sherlock could even finish his question. "Mince pies are in here," he nodded toward the refrigerator as he replaced the milk.

"These are fine." Sherlock examined a gingerbread man without actually taking a bite. He took the mug John handed him, and waited for John to pick up his own mug, as well as the tin of biscuits, before he moved into the sitting room. He considered his armchair, next to the fire John had built. The room was warm enough, so he decided instead to take a seat on the sofa. More awkwardly than was entirely necessary, John set the tin of biscuits on the coffee table, and sat at the other end of the couch. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their tea, for a few moments.

"You know, you're supposed to eat those." John chuckled and pointed to the uneaten gingerbread man in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Just admiring the artistry. Mrs. Hudson really outdid herself."

"Oh, right." John laughed. "Such precise ratio of frosting to sprinkle distribution."

"Don't mock. It would be a shame if she found out. You'd be sorry then." Sherlock smirked and finally took a bite.

"You wouldn't dare." John took his own gingerbread man then.

"Wouldn't I?" Sherlock winked and took another bite and chewed slowly. "Weren't you going to your sister's?"

John bit his lower lip and stared back at Sherlock for a moment. Sherlock could tell he was deciding how much to say. "She, uhm... She called early this morning. Turns out you were right."

"She was drunk." Sherlock stated with disgust.

John nodded, and stared into his tea. "I just..." He went silent then, and Sherlock watched intently as the emotions on John's face ran from hurt and sorrow, to anger, and then finally he schooled them into resignation.

"It's not the reason you didn't go though." Sherlock offered gently. John just continued to stare into his tea. "Mycroft called you."

With a sigh, John looked up at Sherlock. "He was worried about you." Sherlock scoffed. "I... I was worried. I didn't know..."

"Is that why... Uhm, not Sylvia... Amy? Susa..."

"Jeanette," John supplied with another sigh.

"Right. Jeanette. Did Jeanette leave for the same reason?"

"Partly." John took a long drink of his tea. "Mostly I think she left because I offered to walk her dog."

Sherlock scowled. "Why would she leave because you offered to walk her dog?"

"She, ah... She doesn't have a dog. That was the last one." John blushed and took another drink of his tea. Sherlock leaned back to consider that for a moment, and then laughed outright.

"Oh God, John... That's just..." Sherlock continued to laugh.

"A bit not good, yeah?" John shook his head and grinned. "Mrs. Hudson was here for the whole thing. It was mortifying. Though I can't say I'm too broken up about it." 

Sherlock hummed in understanding. They sat in silence once more. John took another biscuit. Shortbread this time.

"Sherlock, you're... _Are_ you okay?" John shifted only minutely to get a better look at his friend. 

"I hate it sometimes." Sherlock avoided John's gaze. His voice was low and soft.

"Sherlock?"

"The knowing. The being right. Everyone assumes I live for the grand reveal. That I..."

"That you get off on it?" John supplied. Sherlock looked up at him sharply, but saw no malice in his friend's expression. Neither did he see pity. He saw someone who truly understood, or was at least doing his very best to do so.

"But that's not always the case. Sometimes it _is_ immensely satisfying to figure out there's a puzzle before anyone else even realizes what is happening. But there _are_ times that the body at the end means I wasn't good enough, I didn't work quickly enough. I failed to solve the puzzle properly, that I missed something important." Sherlock hung his head.

"Like the old lady during that Moriarty thing?" John whispered. Sherlock kept his head bowed, but nodded. "Sherlock, you didn't fail her. You solved it. You did everything you were suppose to do. That was Moriarty. _He's_ the monster, not you."

"I didn't want to be right last night." 

"I know, Sherlock." John sat his mug carefully on the coffee table. "Irene was... _Special,_ yeah? Different than anyone else _I've_ ever met."

"She _was_ a puzzle." Sherlock nodded, and John couldn't quite read the knowing sort of look in his friend's eyes. "I'm fine John. Will be fine."

"Good. Okay." John nodded. "If you want to talk more..."

"I know."

"Right. More tea?" John stood and picked up his mug. Sherlock nodded and handed his mug over. "Oh, and I have something for you. Something... Just in case..." John dug around under the cushion of his armchair and retrieved a small package.

"John, I didn't..."

"Just take it, git." John chuckled. "You have my blessing. Today only."

Sherlock huffed a laugh as he turned the half empty packet of cigarettes over in his hand. "I don't know what to say, John. I'm touched."

"Just, open a window, yeah?" John waved his hand noncommittally toward the windows.

"Actually," Sherlock stood then, and went to the stairs leading up to John's room. He lifted the loose board on the third step up, and dropped the packet in. Replacing the board, he turned back to John. "I really am okay, John."

"How did you..." John stared in astonishment, mouth hanging open.

"I always know, John." Sherlock took the mugs from his friend, before he could drop them, and headed to the kitchen. "So, it's still Christmas. What's on for the rest of the evening?"

Forcing himself to snap out of his surprise, John turned to Sherlock and shook his head. "I was thinking of watching a Christmas film that's going to be on soon."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and frowned. 

"We don't... We don't have to. You'd probably hate it anyway. Terrorists. Explosions. Improbable scenarios. Alan Rickman." John's smile suddenly turned devious.

"I... Alan Rickman is tolerable." Sherlock nodded. "Though, that particular holiday film doesn't sound familiar." He turned to the counter to fix the tea. 

"Oh, it's a classic. My personal favorite. I watch it every year, when I can."

"I'll trust your judgment, John. Consider this my Christmas gift to you."

"It's a Christmas miracle!" John laughed. "And if you like that one, there's another one on right after that's also good. Also set at Christmas. A buddy cop film. Two guys who couldn't be more different, and basically drive each other absolutely mad, end up becoming best friends while they save the day. And the fight scene at the end..."

"Well, that whole premise just sounds ridiculous and highly improbable." Sherlock scoffed, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

John hummed in agreement. "You're right. It would never work in real life." He smirked, gave Sherlock a sidelong glance, and huffed a laugh. "Happy Christmas, _idiot._ "

"Happy Christmas, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Die Hard _AND_ Lethal Weapon? That's a Christmas movie marathon I can get on board with.


	22. Christmas Eve, 2012: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was dead to begin with...
> 
> Sherlock on the hunt, post The Fall.

Sherlock made it a point to never make long term plans. They never seemed to work out for him.

When he was a child, he'd planned to be a pirate when he grew up. At thirty-two years of age, he'd yet to see that plan come to fruition. Certainly he'd had his share of adventures, recovered more than a few hidden treasures (all of which, regrettably, had to be returned to their rightful owners), and faced the fiercest of foes. But he had never sailed the seven seas, let alone set foot on an authentic pirate vessel. He supposed there was still time, but with the current geopolitical climate, and the United Nations enforcing stricter maritime laws, his future as a pirate did not look promising.

Then there was the first time he ever encountered _Doctor_ John H. Watson. He'd sworn to himself, after he'd broken the doctor's nose, and then been arrested, that he'd never lay eyes on him again. And if he did? He'd likely beat him to death. Upon his second encounter with _Captain_ John H. Watson, Sherlock's first long-term goal for the man was immediately abandoned for the new plan. John would be Sherlock's best friend, and would remain so indefinitely. But now, not even two years after establishing the actual friendship, John believed Sherlock to be dead, and Sherlock was tangled in the throes of trying to destroy the largest criminal network in the world.

And bringing down Moriarty's network was a long term plan that grew more and more problematic as time wore on.

So Sherlock avoided making long term plans, because to do so was to avoid failure.

There had been only one long term plan that he thought he'd made and would be able to keep, no matter what happened over the course of the remainder of his days. And this one was important.

He had sworn he would never return to Florida. _God,_ he hated Florida. There really wasn't one part of Florida he hated above the others, he just generally hated the entire state, and everything in it. 

He'd only ever gone to Florida the first time on accident. Or, as accidentally as an international flight could be.

While in Florida the first time, he had also quite accidentally (and far more understandably) met one Mrs. Martha Hudson. The woman was eccentric, a touch mad, and found herself trapped in a marriage to a man who had inherited an international drug cartel. With the threat of prison very real, Sherlock had been able to extract Mrs. Hudson from Frank Hudson's far reach, and provide local authorities with enough evidence to ensure that Frank received the death penalty. _Most_ of his lieutenants were locked away for life.

It was that regrettable "most" that had Sherlock breaking his one unbreakable long term goal.

One of Frank Hudson's lieutenants, a slug of a man who went by Joe Lewis, had made it into hiding. After a few years of lying dormant, he got ambitious and decided to get the cartel back together. Former clients were ecstatic for the cartel's return, and within a matter of months, the business was nearly double what it had been in Frank's day.

That's when he contacted the notorious James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal. Sure business was great, but he was exhausted, and good help was just so hard to find. He'd reached out for help making sure his business plan was secure, when Moriarty had swooped in, replaced a few key players with his own men, and somehow managed to convince Lewis that he'd be able to run the whole thing from the safety and relative comfort of a low security federal correctional institution in Sumterville. 

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away the insistent migraine that had plagued him since the moment he'd arranged transportation to Florida, as he mentally reviewed the information he had on Lewis.

The man was already in prison, and clearly not a threat, since he had believed prison to be the safest place to run his cartel from. All Sherlock needed was names and locations. Even just one name and one location, would suffice. He'd settle for the bare minimum if it meant he could get out of Florida. 

Adjusting his hat, and brushing the imagined dust off his uniform sleeve, Sherlock reported for duty as the newest guard at the facility. His security badge read William Scott, a recent transplant from the Lucasville Correctional Facility in Ohio (it was a stretch, but he found the bland Midwest accent a little easier to master in a pinch than the complex and varying drawls he could have chosen from the south).

Several times it was mentioned how _unusual_ it was to be training a new guy on Christmas eve. But they were short staffed, and so the unusual nature of the situation was quickly overlooked. He was assigned several mind numbing orientation videos to watch. After endless hours of useless droning, four cups of coffee, and a surprisingly decent lunch, William Scott was taken on his first full tour of the facility. Everything was straightforward, especially for someone with William's background, and he was left at his post to guard.

After a moment of acclimating himself to the ridiculously simple to manipulate security and camera system, Sherlock managed to make his way, alone and unnoticed, to the cell containing Joe Lewis. The man had nearly had a heart attack on the spot when he saw Sherlock.

"You... You're dead!" Lewis whimpered.

"Obviously you're mistaken." Sherlock rolled his eyes derisively. "I'm just here for information. Give me what I need, and you'll never see me again. I promise you that."

"But... But... You're _dead_ " The criminal was hyperventilating where he stood, cowering in the corner.

"Oh, for godsake, sit down." Sherlock forced the man to sit on his bunk, and instructed him in some breathing techniques he'd watched John use. Slowly Lewis calmed down, but his eyes kept darting over to the desk. "What are you looking at?" Sherlock stood from his crouched position, to investigate.

Taped above the desk was a copy of Sherlock's obituary, complete with his picture, that had been clipped from a newspaper. Taped up next to it were several still shots, they looked like security footage, of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock seethed as he ripped the clipping and the photos from the wall. The last one had been folded in half to cut someone, or something out of the shot. When Sherlock unfolded the photo it revealed that John was the one standing next to Mrs. Hudson. He turned on Lewis with a snarl. 

"Where did these come from?" Sherlock growled.

"I... I don't know. They came tucked in a 'thank you' card a few days after you..." The man was visibly trembling.

"Do you still have the card and the envelope?" Still growling, Sherlock crowded into Lewis's space.

"Yes?" The terrified man yelped. "Top drawer. _Top drawer._ "

Sherlock tore through the top drawer of the desk, and found the card and envelope. The postmark was from Belgrade. Sherlock repeated one of the more colorful curse laden diatribes he'd learned from John. "Serbia?" He turned back to Lewis. " _Serbia?_ Who do you know in Serbia?"

"No one, I don't know anyone!" Lewis wept.

"Then why? Why send these to you? And _why_ did you keep them?"

"I don't know! Please, you have to believe me! I. Don't. Know." Lewis was begging now.

"Why did you keep them?" Crowding back into the criminal's personal space, Sherlock shoved the photos into the other man's face.

"That's Frankie's old lady... Me and her, we had a... a thing..." Lewis stammered.

"Excuse me?" Eyes wide with shock, Sherlock's voice dropped to a threatening timbre. He grabbed the man by the throat. "Care to amend that statement?" 

"It's true! It's true, me and Martha... We..." Lewis was cut off when Sherlock backhanded him.

"I'm keeping these!" Sherlock carefully tucked the photos and card back into the original envelope and stalked to the door. "Don't even think of trying to tell anyone about this meeting." He hissed over his shoulder before ducking back out into the hallway, leaving Lewis a quivering sobbing mess.

With only an hour left to his shift, Sherlock made his rounds, and found it exceptionally easy to muscle his way into the bartering system the prisoners used to trade favors and comfort items. Granted, it was a federal low security facility, so most of the criminals were anything but hardened. The kitchen staff and grounds crews, however, they were another story altogether. Sherlock managed to make nice with a few of the kitchen staff before he left.

Sherlock whistled along to the godawful pop versions of the Christmas carols playing on the radio as he drove away from the prison. He had, by his estimation, three grand reasons to be cheerful. The first being, he felt confident the envelope, and its contents, was his first major clue in weeks (and while he wanted to keep the photos, he did not want the mental reminder of Mrs. Hudson and Joe Lewis together; it was positively nauseating). Second, and this was vital, by lunch time on Christmas day, Joe Lewis would be on his way to the morgue, following a very unfortunate accident in the showers (that had only cost him his watch and a couple hundred thousand American dollars, which he knew Mycroft was good for). Third, and most importantly of all, Sherlock was absolutely giddy about the fact that he was, at that very moment, on his way to the airport, never to look back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prisons at Lucasville and Sumterville are real. 
> 
> I have absolutely no ill-will against the state of Florida... as long as we're not talking sports. College football is a whole other thing.
> 
> I'm from Ohio, so I'm allowed to call it a bland Midwestern accent. Because it is. It's the most bland. Speaking of which, it's December 23, and my phone just buzzed with a tornado warning. Fantastic.


	23. Christmas Day, 2012: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's not dealing well.
> 
> Here's where the story starts to converge with my story "Crucial." You by no means have to read it to understand anything that is going to happen here. Just know, it's there if you want more of the story.

"Hap... Happy Christ... mas, mate!" John raised his glass to toast Greg as he stumbled backwards from the door. 

"Oi! Careful there, John." Greg reached out a hand to help stabilize his friend. "Happy Christmas to you too. Why don't we... Here," he put his arm around John's shoulders and guided the clearly unstable man to the couch. "Why don't we have a sit down and talk a bit."

"You want some eggnog, Greg?" John thrust his tumbler into Greg's hands.

"This," Greg sniffed the liquid and scrunched up his face. "This is all booze, John."

"Yeah, I tried to make eggnog... but it just turned into a giant omelette. So I just added scotch to the rum. It's... It's not bad." John slumped back onto the couch.

"Is that all you've done today?" Greg looked around the flat. Honestly, he'd seen 221b look a lot worse when Sherlock was still alive, but John was meticulous, even in his grief. The place looked like... Well, frankly, it looked like Sherlock had been there. 

"It's Christmas, John. Why not come with me? I'm going to Molly's for dinner. She's insisting you come."

"'M fine, Greg." John waved his hand at Greg, and then lunged after the tumbler. Greg pulled it out of his reach.

"Ah, no. You've had _more_ than enough. And this..." Greg picked John's Sig up off the coffee table. "This is loaded and out of its safe, which means you are _not_ in fact _fine._ "

"Pfft." John stood to push his way past Greg, but with a single hand on his shoulder, Greg was able to push him back down into his seat. 

"Stay put." Greg turned on the telly, and flipped through the stations quickly.

"Stop! Go back, go back Greg!" John grabbed Greg's arm to try and wrench the remote away.

"Calm down, mate. Here. _Die Hard?_ Really?"

"Tradition." John smiled contentedly and snuggled back into the couch.

"If you say so." Greg removed the clip from the gun and slid it into his pocket. He gathered up the empty glasses and bottles from the coffee table and floor around the couch and dumped them in the bin. He rinsed out the kettle and got it started, and then checked the refrigerator. Nothing. He pulled out his mobile.

 

_Mols, I'm at Baker Street. John's pretty bad. Worst I've seen in a while. -GL_

_You want me to come there? I can call everyone right now and cancel. -MH_

_No, don't do that. I'll call for a take away. -GL_

_Sorry to ruin your plans. -GL_

_You're not ruining anything. You're helping our friend. -MH_

_Molly Hooper, I think I might love you. -GL_

_Greg! -MH_

_No, I'm serious. I love you, Molly Hooper. -GL_

_Oh my God, I could kiss you and smack you right now. -MH_

_Come over later? After John's settled? -MH_

_I'll be there, love. -GL_

_Oh my God. Greg. -MH_

_Happy Christmas, Mols. -GL_

_I love you too. -MH_

 

Greg grinned stupidly at his mobile for a few moments, until he remembered where he was. He had to flip the kettle back on to get it hot again, and he cleaned up John's omelette as he waited. "Bloody hell John, this is some kind of mess. What all did you put in this?" It took longer to scrub up the stove top, the counter, the floor, and the table than he thought it would. Finally satisfied, Greg started the kettle a third time, and called to order Chinese while he waited. 

A few minutes later, Greg carried two cups of tea into the sitting room. "I hope Chinese is okay with you, because..." He was cut short by John sitting in Sherlock's armchair sobbing.

"Greg, I..." 

"I know John. I miss him too." Greg deposited the teas on the coffee table and glanced around frantically for the Sig. "John, give me the gun."

"I just need to hold it... please. It's not even... It's not loaded. See?" John held it up in front of Greg.

Plucking it easily from John's hands, Greg held it out of reach. "I know! I'm the one who took the clip out of it! Now, stop this John. Just stop. I know you miss him. I do. And I know the pain is unbearable some days. _Trust me, I know._ But today is Christmas and I am not going to sit here and let my best friend do something moronic." Greg put the gun up on the mantel. "Now get over on that couch, drink your tea, and watch your bloody movie before I start reciting Dickens at you."

John blinked with surprise at the dressing down, and then giggled. "Yes, mother." He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stumbled to the couch. 

"That's better." Greg flopped down next to John and handed him his tea. "The food will be here in a few minutes, and after we eat, you're going to shower. You smell like a liquor store threw up an omelette."

When John didn't respond, Greg glanced over just in time to reach out and grab the mug from him. John had fallen fast a sleep and was slumped deep into the cushions. Pulling the throw from the back of the couch, Greg propped John's legs up on the coffee table, and covered him up.

"Happy Christmas, mate. I'll be here when you wake up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story... My sister tried to make eggnog once, using a recipe she had for 4-H. Once it was all done, it looked like eggnog and it smelled like eggnog. If Monty Python has taught us anything, by those two factors alone, we should be able to safely assume she had, for all intents and purposes _made_ eggnog. It was not eggnog. It was very runny, disgusting scrambled eggs. That happened _soooo_ long ago, and I haven't been able to drink eggnog since.


	24. Christmas Day, 2013: Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock busts a human trafficking ring.
> 
> John is in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was intended to be posted yesterday, along with John's companion chapter. Work, technology woes, Christmas responsibilities, and general adulting matters interfered. So, I intend to post as much as I can today, but the story will carry on up to the New Year now... I didn't think you all would mind. That should hold us until the special, yeah?
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS, my friends! ♡♡♡
> 
> P.S.- this might be my favorite Sherlock chapter yet.

There were a great many things Sherlock had come to _not_ expect on his quest to bring down Moriarty's criminal network.

He'd long since given up the hope of finding a cup of tea steeped with as much care and attention as what he'd grown accustomed to while living with John.

Hospitality was a vital component of the culture in many of the countries he visited. And while he didn't necessarily consider Londoners rude, he definitely missed the anonymity one could maintain bustling through crowds, head down and avoiding eye contact. Keeping to himself was proving to be difficult.

Each country he'd visited boasted their own specialty pastries and baked goods. He'd sampled a good many of them. But none ever lived up to the standard rule he measured them next to. It was simply not possible to compete with the sweets produced by the lovely Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen at 221a Baker Street.

Christmas had meant something to him as a child. His fondest childhood memories all centered around, and stemmed out from, celebration of the holiday. He knew better than to expect the day to hold any sentimental value while he was so far from home. He did his best to avoid thought of it. 

As the days and months wore on, Sherlock became increasingly aware of the concessions he'd made in making this choice, in choosing to fake his death and venture out on his own. But when he weighed the comfort he'd given up against the far weightier value of that which he was protecting, the choice was obvious. Never drinking another cup of decent tea again was a small price to pay to ensure that Scotland Yard wouldn't burn to the ground because Lestrade, the only one with any sense, would be there to carry on. Giving up Mrs. Hudson's baked goods in exchange for the woman herself required absolutely no consideration.

And he'd surrender any amount of privacy, lay himself open, expose every facet of his inner workings, strip away every facade, reveal every single alias and cover, and it still wouldn't be enough to demonstrate the lengths he would go to in order to keep John Watson breathing.

The only Christmas that mattered anymore was the first one _after_ he made it home.

Sherlock was going to make it home, aversions to long term planning be damned. 

He just hadn't anticipated Christmas presenting a sentimental quandary while he was on the hunt, trekking across Turkey.

The first Christmas away had not been too difficult, as he'd been active and travelling. This, the second Christmas away found him alone in a dingy, over full hostel, waiting for nightfall so he could stake out a business that may or may not be the front for a human trafficking ring.

Uneasy was an understatement when Sherlock thought about the inconsistency of the intelligence Mycroft had sent him in regards to the whole outfit. The only useful bit of information being the health assessments of the staff that worked the cafe serving as the front. There were traces of drugs and little oddities that _could_ lend themselves to criminal activity. But he really had nothing concrete.

So, he tried not to think about it too much, in an attempt to get a little rest. 

Unfortunately he wasn't the only one occupying space in the shared room. More than a few of his bunk mates had spent the night before in raucous, drunken revelries, and he'd hoped that would translate into a quiet morning.

"Joyeux Noël!"

So much for a quite morning. A chorus of bleary holiday greetings rang out as people tumbled from their bunks in order to prepare themselves for more celebration.

"¡Feliz Navidad!"

"С Рождеством!"

"Happy Christmas!"

"Buon Natale!"

Sherlock gathered his belongings and dressed quickly, giving up on trying to get any rest.

"Have some Christmas cheer, mate?" Someone Sherlock refused to acknowledge stepped right up to his side as he buttoned his khaki colored shirt. Sherlock grunted as the interloper wagged a flask in front of his face.

"Thanks, but no." Ducking quickly around the other man, Sherlock dove for the door.

"Happy Christmas, mate!" The stranger shouted. Sherlock half-heartedly waved back at him over his shoulder.

Stumbling down decrepit and crumbling steps, Sherlock made his way down the bustling street. Right. Only those businesses interested in the commercial aspect of Christmas observed the day here.

With long, quick strides he made his way toward the business he'd be watching that night. Under the guise of backpacking tourist, he planned to patronize the cafe, to gather as much information in the light of day as possible.  
Pausing just outside, he smirked at the awful reflection of himself in the shop window. He hated this disguise most of all. He ran his hand over his head and sighed at the haircut. Clipped very short, military style, with just enough product to disguise any hint of curl, the look did not suite him at all. Neither did the three days of stubble. But it fit the persona.

He pulled a military style cap from his rucksack and pulled it low over his forehead, then checked to make certain his British military issued fatigues were properly buttoned and tucked, as a true military man would. They appeared sufficiently wrinkled for someone who was trying to make the most of his time on leave. He wore a captain's insignia, and the name Watson was embroidered on his chest.

Sherlock laughed at that. The first real, genuine laugh since he'd stepped off the roof of St. Bart's. Mycroft's audacity in supplying the uniform truly shocked him. And if John ever learned of this particular one of Sherlock's aliases, and how it came to be, he'd be nothing short of furious. Enraged.

The blazing pits of hell would be more tolerable.

Anyone who knew him now might think the false identity to be a sure sign of sentimentality. Nothing could be less true. It all started the night Sherlock pick-pocketed John five years before. After getting clean, Sherlock devoted himself to solving problems and puzzles. _The World's Only Consulting Detective._

He found he'd needed disguises and aliases in this new venture, and he returned to the cache of wallets he'd lifted in his day. How fortuitous, then, that one wallet held the identification card of an active duty army captain, _and_ medical credentials complete with privileges at St. Bart's hospital. With a little bit of doctoring, the I.D. cards looked legitimate enough, and he found he put them to use quite often.

Until he had access to the man himself.

Sherlock never used John's name as his cover again after that day Stamford _introduced_ them (Mike thought the encounter was a happy coincidence, Sherlock, on the other hand, had actually been working toward it for weeks). But now that Sherlock was officially dead, and attempting to keep John from the same designation, he'd had to pull out all of his resources. Needs must, and all that nonsense.

 _Some_ day he would tell John, but until then, he really just needed to keep them all alive, himself included.

Adjusting his cap once more, Sherlock pushed through the door of the cafe. A tinny bell rang overhead, and his ears were assaulted by a recording of Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" being piped entirely too loudly throughout the place. The cafe was clearly decorated for Christmas. The garlands and baubles were obviously copied from Western styles, but they were made from local materials, trinkets and bangles.

A young girl ( _Thirteen. No. Eleven. Dressed and made up to look older. Slight limp. Concealer on her face didn't quite cover the bruises on her jaw. Her eyes appeared lifeless. Drugged then._ ) unnecessarily, as the place was empty, showed him to a table. She handed him a menu without saying a word, and avoiding eye contact, scurried away.

Sherlock pretended to study the menu, though really he was busy studying his surroundings. A single front entrance, clearly marked for customer use. There were two hallways leading to the back of the building, which was larger than the dining room would indicate. One hallway was dark, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of a door with a padlock. _Not especially original, this group._ The second must lead to the kitchen, as it's where the girl had disappeared to.

Considering his options, Sherlock had just decided to "get lost" looking for the toilet when another young girl ( _This one actually was thirteen, though once again, dressed and made-up to appear older. Alluring. No visible bruises or marring, though she appeared to be trembling. She was terrified. Drugged as well._ ) entered carrying a tray. She placed a pot of tea, English breakfast by the scent, a tea cup and saucer, and a small plate with a gingerbread man in front of him.

"I..." Taken aback, Sherlock blinked in surprise. "I didn't order this." The girl did not respond, she only proceeded to pour his tea, and to his horror, she added two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. Exactly how he took it. The way John always made it. "H-how...?

"Happy Christmas, sir." The girl, her accent was clearly Russian, though in his distraction he couldn't place the region, avoided making eye contact, turned quickly and fled down the same hall she'd entered from.

Something icy clenched in his gut. It wasn't exactly fear. Foreboding, perhaps. _Ridiculous._ Sherlock was being ridiculous. The proprietors were clearly trying to cater to Westerners. Of course they would offer popular Christmas treats _on_ Christmas. And the large majority of the population of the U.K. must take their tea with milk and two sugars. _Calm down._

After a thorough, and what he thought was not too conspicuous, examination of the tea and biscuit, he judged them to be safe, and decided to partake. He convinced himself the deciding factor was that Mycroft knew where he was. In reality, he hadn't eaten anything for two days, and the smell of the tea appealed to some base need within him, something he'd been trying to forget.

Sherlock groaned with delight as he sipped his tea. If he didn't know better, (and he _did_ know, he was kept in constant update) he would have sworn John himself had made the tea. And the gingerbread rivaled any Mrs. Hudson had ever made. He let himself pretend, just for a few moments, that he was back at Baker Street, back at home. How appropriate, then, that the too loud Christmas music switched to a violin rendition of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." He refreshed his tea and hummed in appreciation. He cared little for the religious implications of the song, but the melody was haunting and the performance was technically perfect.

If not for the human trafficking ring, he thought he could really adore this little shop.

Lost in his sentimental ponderings, he was startled when a third girl approached his table. She also carried a tray. ( _Fourteen. Not as visually appealing as the others. Dressed and made up more provocatively, as her age and physical attributes are a deterrence. Focus placed on her auburn hair. Not drugged, but her spirit is broken. She could run out that door right now, but she won't. Subservient and obedient._ )

"A gift. For you." The girl, whose soft voice had a definite Irish lilt, _Aran Islands, Inishmore specifically,_ avoided eye contact as she cleared away the cooled pot of tea and empty plate. She replaced them with another pot, and a plate containing a few dainty pieces of shortbread. With practiced hands she poured and prepared the tea. Chai. He didn't care for chai.

John liked chai. Enjoyed the spice.

"I'm sorry, I don't..."

The girl, to Sherlock's astonishment, looked him in the eye. "It's a gift." She turned abruptly and practically ran down the hall.

Another quick inspection, and Sherlock deemed the tea and shortbread safe. He sipped the tea and grimaced. He really did not enjoy the flavor at all. But there was something in the way it was prepared. The precise amount of milk the girl had added. It tasted exactly as he knew it would if John had prepared the cup (John's tea preparation had it's own shelf in the kitchen of the mind palace).

Nearly overcome, Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled the aroma. He let himself remember. _Evenings by the fireside. Giggling at the most inappropriate times. Comfortable silences. Belonging._ He'd finish this cup, and then move on. This sentimental abandon was reckless, and he couldn't afford...

"Happy Christmas, my friend!" A mousy man with glasses, dressed impeccably, clearly originally from London himself, pulled the chair across from Sherlock out and sat down. A large, very muscular man, dressed all in black military style garb, stood at attention behind him. "I hope you have enjoyed my gifts."

"Everything was delightful." Sherlock feigned a smile.

"You don't care for the chai." The other man observed. There was something in his tone that made Sherlock sit up a little straighter.

"I wouldn't have chosen it, no. But.. "

"Ah, but you did." The other man smiled a devious sort of dangerous smile and folded his hands on the table in front of him. "I know who you are, Mr. Holmes. Recognized you from the London papers. Imagine my surprise when a ghost walked into my cafe, today of all days."

"Who..."

"Ah, ah. I'm talking now." The other man patted Sherlock's hand. He pulled it away, as if he'd been burned. The other man huffed a laugh. "You see, I was suspicious. Would the great Sherlock Holmes really have ended himself? Don't get me wrong, I owe a great debt to Moriarty, but it was obvious you were the greater of the two intellects."

He paused for Sherlock to respond to the praise, but received only stony silence and an icy glare in return. "I had to be certain. So, I've been watching your doctor. Such a sad, broken little man. I've known truly devoted widows who had not suffered the way your _friend_ has suffered. It's a very good thing he has that detective chap to keep him right, or his would be the next casualty in your little game here. All self inflicted, of course."

Sherlock seethed. Mycroft sent him updates on John. He was working, coping, moving on. Nothing about John's emotional distress had ever been mentioned.

"Is there a point? If not, I think I will take my leave." 

Sherlock scooted his chair back to stand but bumped into something solid. A large hand pushed his chair back up to the table, as if he wasn't even in it, and the barrel of a gun was pressed into his back.

The other man waited for him to settle back into place. "I have little shops like this one all over the world. Makes my _export_ business very easy to operate. Your doctor came into my shop in London the other day. Ordered chai and shortbread. He's rather a lovely man, isn't he? Strong, military bearing. And medical training? He has many _assets_ that could be seen as useful. Appealing. Attractive, even. I imagine a bidding war could be expected. His connection to you would drive his value quite high. My customers tend to be very... creative... with their acquisitions."

Sherlock growled. "If you..."

"I am offering you a reprieve. A Christmas day truce." The man stood. "If my men find you anywhere within these city limits after midnight tonight, your doctor will be sold to the highest bidder, and you will be forced to watch. I've already got interested parties waiting. If you try to contact him, he will be taken. If you approach my establishment again, any of them, and I will know if you do, he will be taken. And then your fate will be decided. You'll want to be on your way now." The man turned on his heel and departed down the hall with the locked door, his two goons in tow.

John. Oh God. _John._

Sherlock stumbled from the diner in a panic, and had to blink as the glaring sun nearly blinded him. He forced himself to walk to the secure car park where he'd left the car he'd rented. Once inside, he had to forced himself to obey traffic laws as he steered the car through traffic and out of the city. He stopped at a petrol station a few kilometers away. As calmly as possible he shut the car off, and dug the unused burner phone from his rucksack. He pressed the button to power it on, and waited.

And broke down. A shaking, sobbing mess, Sherlock pounded his fists on the steering wheel and screamed. It was primal and raw, and he screamed and screamed until his lungs couldn't take any more. He dialed the only number he allowed himself to retain in his mind palace.

"To what do I owe this distinct pleasu..."

"Where's John?" Sherlock roared.

"Happy Christmas to you too, brother." It was a snide and ugly response.

"Mycroft, there's no time for your idiocy. John's in danger. The cafe is the place we're looking for. The owner is the ring leader. He's the mousy man with the glasses from the security footage. He's from London. There are girls there now. I need your men to go in, and burn the place to the ground. Kill everyone. He has shops everywhere. One in London. John's been there. Oh God. _John's_ been there. God." Sherlock cursed.

"Sherlock, slow down. What happened?" Mycroft's voice was tinged with genuine concern, and Sherlock could hear him slamming drawers and pecking away at a keyboard.

"He knew I was coming. Recognized me. He's going to take John if I don't back off." Sherlock cursed himself for the tremor in his voice.

"Get out of there. I'll have men on the ground within the hour. There and at the shop here in London."

"Mycroft, secure John first. I don't care what you have to do..."

"He's taken an on-call shift at St. Bart's. He'll be there for another twelve hours. I'll send undercover men over there now. He will be perfectly safe."

"You know as well as I do he is as susceptible to attack in the hospital as he is outside." Sherlock sniffed mournfully.

Mycroft paused and chuckled. "You would know, brother."

" _My_... Mycroft, please. _Please_ keep him safe. Don't let him do anything stupid. I can't..."

"I know, Willi... Sherlock." Both men inhaled sharply at Mycroft's blunder. The elder Holmes recovered first, and cleared his throat. "He will have the highest security assigned him. We will locate and put an end to the remaining shops. Now you... You find someplace to rest. I'll send you a location."

"Please keep me updated. Hourly." Sherlock knew exactly how desperate he sounded, and he couldn't be arsed to care.

"Gladly."

"Th-thank you." Sherlock exhaled deeply. "Happy Christmas, My." He whispered.

"And to you, little brother. Now, destroy this mobile. I'll have a new one waiting for you."

"Obviously." Sherlock snipped, a smirk on his face. He disconnected the call and place the phone under the tire of the car.

Ordinarily he would have gone back and made sure he was in the thick of the action once Mycroft's men were in place. But not this time. This time, the risk was too great, the cost one he wasn't willing to pay. He would go, and he would wait, as much as it killed him to do so. The only thing that mattered was John’s safety.

"Happy Christmas, John. Be safe." He whispered as he steered the car toward the safe house Mycroft had waiting on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read "Crucial," you'll remember that Mycroft hired John to do health and risk assessments on agents and potential threats. His purpose was basically to provide Sherlock with that "John insight" he needs so badly, without John actually knowing Sherlock was the one receiving it. The only useful information Sherlock received in this story was the health assessments. Awwwww.
> 
> Also, in my version of Sherlock's time away, he doesn't do as much of the killing. He does all the leg work and the stuff Sherlock always does, but he takes full advantage of Mycroft. He doesn't actually have a death wish.


	25. Christmas Day, 2013: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft face aspects of the human trafficking ring.
> 
> ***Any dialogue that appears in **bold** print is either Pashto or Dari. The distinction will be indicated within the paragraph.***
> 
> ***TRIGGER WARNING***  
> Rape and loss of an infant is mentioned in regards to an original character. No graphic descriptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies friends. 
> 
> There is more to the story. Thank you so much for bearing with me. We'll get there. I promise.

John cursed under his breath. He knew better than to let his guard down.

To be fair, he also knew better than to exit the tube three stations early just because he thought maybe a brisk walk in the frigid, biting wind would help expend some nervous energy. Especially when he was completely exhausted after a twenty-four hour on-call shift at the hospital, and more than a little distracted.

 _Assess the situation._ John strained to hear the footfall of the man who had been following him since he exited the station. _Quick. Erratic. Light tread. Not a military bearing, so not likely one of Mycroft's. Poor job of matching steps, so not trying to hide. Not likely a professional henchman then._ He watched the shadows cast by the streetlamps. Not a perfect indicator, but he could at least get a feel for what he was up against. _Slight build. Definite height advantage. Likely male._

John weighed his options. Should he maintain his slightly slumped and exhausted posture, feign ignorance, wait for the next clear route of escape to present itself, and make a run for it? Or, he could go full military stance, face the threat head on. There were too many variables. He had no idea how many men he was actually facing. Was there an ambush waiting? If it was Mycroft, he'd find him no matter where he ran to. Was the other guy even armed? Based on his shadow and what John could hear of his approaching gait, he was fairly certain he could defend himself easily against the other man.

And John was never one to run from his problems.

He waited for the next clearly lit intersection and came to a complete halt. Assuming his full military stance, John called over his shoulder, "Don't come any closer, I'm armed." It was a lie, of course. John never took the Sig with him to work anyway, but lately he'd kept it locked up more than he normally would. For his own safety, and not so much anyone else's. He waited a beat, and the other man continued his approach.

Bluff called, then.

John clenched his hands into fists. Heart racing, nerves screaming, he took a deep breath, and then another. He wasn't afraid. Far from it. In that moment, facing the uncertainty of imminent danger, he felt more alive than he had since Sherlock had... Hmm... Yeah, since Sherlock.

"I'm warning you. You need to rethink taking another step closer." John made sure his voice was low, and he all but growled the threat. He started to turn slowly, his movements deliberate, so as not to spook his stalker into a rash reaction. "I swear to God, I will..." John froze, stunned by the sight before him. "Bill?" He barely managed to rasp the name out and maintain control of his knees at the same time. John sighed in relief.

"Hey, Doc... I... I uhm... Shezza, he said... back when... _before_..." The young man hung his head to avoid making eye contact with John.

"Bill, what is it? What's the matter?" John took a tiny step forward, but made certain to keep his distance, this time for Bill's sake. Bill Wiggins. The wiry, awkward, young twenty-something was one of the original members of Sherlock's homeless network. He was bright, thought quickly on his feet, had fast hands, and if he was ever afraid John had never seen it. Before now. Certainly he was skittish around authorities, but he had trusted Sherlock completely. By extension, Bill had grown to trust John, though the doctor knew the only reason for that trust was because Sherlock had grown to trust him too. 

"There's a girl. A pregnant girl. She's ain't... She's not doing so well." Bill looked up then, with tear rimmed eyes, and John read true fear there. By the way he twitched and flinched when he moved, John could tell Bill was on edge, impatient. This girl, whoever she was, was important to him.

"All right, Bill. Can you take me to her? Is she somewhere I'll be allowed in?" John spoke softly in an effort to reassure the young man.

Bill nodded, though he appeared uncertain. "Been a long time, Doc, but we all still trust you. Shezza said it would be okay, if anything ever..."

"It's fine Bill. Show me where she is, yeah? Anyone call an ambulance?" John took another step toward Bill, in an effort to urge the young man on.

"No! No ambulance. She's scared..." Bill skidded to a halt and grabbed John by the arm. "It has to be you, Doc. Just you. She don't trust nobody but me. But she'll trust you."

John nodded grimly and motioned for Bill to lead on. "Tell me what you can, Bill." The other man took off at a jog. John rolled his eyes, and kept pace.

"Name's Aroos. She doesn't speak much English at all. I _think_ she's from Afghanistan..."

"Symptoms, Bill. I need to know what's wrong. How far along is she? Is she bleeding? Having contractions?" John interrupted.

"Right. Right... I'm not sure how far along she is. I think it's too soon though. She's in a lot of pain, but it didn't seem like contractions. At least, not like I've seen. And there was... blood..." Bill led them down another alley, in what was quickly becoming a convoluted, maze of a route. A convoluted maze of a route that looked vaguely familiar, as if from a dream.

"Bill," John tugged on the back of the younger man's threadbare coat just as he ducked behind a skip and dislodged a ventilation grate. "How did you know about this place?"

"Shezza... He showed me. I was in trouble, and he told me about it. Been using it since... You know..." Bill shrugged and looked at him sheepishly. "It's okay, Doc?"

"Yes. Yeah, of course. I'm glad you... It's good you can use it. I just haven't been here since before..." John drew in a controlled deep breath. "Lots of memories, you know?" Bill nodded and John waved him on. "Off you go, then." John ducked in through the opening in the wall behind Bill. They had to crawl for a few metres, but the duct work finally gave way to a small room.

There were no windows, as it was really more of a crawl space than a room, but it was dry and surprisingly warm. It had been one of only a handful of Sherlock's boltholes he'd shared with John in the course of their partnership. John knew there were dozens more, but they'd not had enough time to need them all.

They'd used this particular hiding spot twice. Both experiences had been decidedly less miserable for John than they had for Sherlock, as the ceiling was low enough that Sherlock had to duck if he chose to stand, or pace as he was wont to do, but John was able to stand at full height. He was also more adapted to hunkering down in bare dirt rooms than Sherlock. Though, after the first time they'd needed to hide in the room, Sherlock had made sure to stock all of his hiding places with essentials (his idea of essential varied a great deal from John’s, so John made sure there were at least first aid kits available). 

There was a battery powered camp lantern lit in one corner, and another corner was stacked with the remaining supplies; John was surprised to see any of it still there. In the center of the room was an air mattress, and in the center of the air mattress, a girl.

"Aroos?" Bill whispered, though John could hear how truly frantic the man was. "Aroos, c'mon, are you awake? This is Doc... Uhm, Doctor Watson. He's our friend. He can help you." Bill took one if her hands in his and spoke a little more loudly. "Please, Aroos."

With a whimper Aroos stirred awake. "Bill?" Her voice was weak and her breath labored.

"I'm here, love," Bill's voice broke and John looked up at him sharply.

"Bill, is this your baby?"

"No, Doc. I just..." Bill shook his head and brought Aroos' hand up to his lips.

"Yeah, okay." John scrubbed his hand over his face. "Do you know _where_ in Afghanistan she's from?"

"No. It never really came up... language barrier and all." Bill shrugged.

 **"Aroos, do you speak Pashto or Dari?"** John asked in Pashto. He knelt beside Bill so that he would be in the girl's line of sight.

Aroos glared in response, and instinctively pulled her hand away from Bill so she could wrap her arms around her middle. **"Dari."**

John sighed but forced a smile. **"You do understand Pashto?"**

 **"You will address me in Dari."** Aroos condescended in Dari.

 **"I apologize, Aroos, but my Dari is terrible. If you'll let me, I can help you, but it will be easier if we can use Pashto."** John stayed very still, so as not to appear threatening in any way.

 **"No! I know what you are. You are a _soldier._ You will take me away again."** Aroos shouted in Dari. She was in a full panic, near hyperventilating. She doubled over in pain and cried out. "Bill! Help... Please."

"Aroos, love," Bill placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Doctor. Friend. He can help."

"Soldier." Aroos whimpered. She looked up at Bill, her eyes full of pleading and fear. She pointed at John and hissed, "soldier."

 **"I _was_ a soldier. But I'm a doctor. _Doctor?_ "** John placed a hand on his own chest. **"Please, Aroos, let me help you."**

"No!" Working herself into a proper frenzy, Aroos screamed at John. **"You will not touch me!"**

"Bill, she has to calm down. She's going to cause harm to the baby, and herself. We could lose them both. Talk to her. She's not going to let me help her, but if we can get her to calm down, I can get someone here who can." John scooted away from the mattress and toward the ventilation duct. Bill nodded in understanding, crawled around to kneel near Aroos' head, and began whispering nonsense next to her ear. "I'll be right back, Bill. I promise, I'm not leaving." The other man just nodded and continued consoling the hysterical girl.

John crawled his way back out to the alley, only to be stopped short by a stylish yet sensible pair of pumps and a stocking clad set of very shapely legs blocking his exit. Without looking up, John growled. "Get your boss on the phone."

"Mr. Holmes would like for you to report immediately, Doctor Watson." Anthea (John had long ago stopped caring about her many aliases, and just stuck with the one he knew first) stepped slightly aside to give John room to stand, though she never took her eyes from her mobile. 

"Well, I have a bit of a situation here. And I think he's going to want to know about it. But we need a doctor first." John stood and rolled his shoulders. Anthea looked up from her mobile long enough to raise an eyebrow in question at him. " _I know_ I'm a doctor, thank you. There is a young woman, Aroos, from Afghanistan, in there who is, by my best guess, seven months pregnant. I believe the baby is in a breech position, and that there are other complications, but she won't let me examine her. She speaks Dari, I only know Pashto, so she refuses to cooperate with me. Culturally, she will want a female doctor. And," John exhaled deeply, "she didn't say much, but I think she may have been caught up in that human trafficking ring." Anthea looked up sharply from transcribing John's explanation.

 **"We're to take her with us."** Anthea responded in Dari. 

"You speak Dari. Of course you do. I should probably be surprised, but I'm really not." John shook his head and chuckled despite himself. "No ambulances. Nothing with any sort of resemblance to a military transport. And Bill, the young man with her, comes too." Anthea nodded her agreement. She finished entering something on her mobile, dropped it into her pocket, and crawled through the opening in the wall without any hesitation. John shrugged and followed after her.

Anthea was already explaining to Aroos that they were taking her to get help for her baby when John entered. The younger woman had calmed noticeably, though she remained tense. Making an effort to stay out of her direct line of sight, John skirted around the edge of the room to the pile of supplies, and located a thick sleeping bag. "If we can get her onto that, we can pull her through the tunnel and out to the alley."

Bill nodded, and John tossed the sleeping bag to him. He'd let Anthea talk Aroos through the process, as she seemed to be responding well to the female presence. As Bill and Anthea helped Aroos shift glacially, John dug through the supplies for the first aid kit. He cursed under his breath when he found the kit, but discovered the canvas pouch had been emptied of everything. John dug through the supplies in hopes of finding gloves, or anything that may be useful if the worst happened as they were in transit. He found no gloves, but did manage to find some antiseptic, a towel, and few still clean flannels. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. He shoved his supplies into the first aid bag.

"Ready?" John turned to see a thoroughly exhausted and peaked Aroos bundled onto the sleeping bag, and a stricken Bill caressing her hair.

"Car's here." Anthea responded. She turned immediately and crawled into the duct.

"Bill, can you pull her? She'll stay calm if you're by her head. And I'll follow after, to make sure everything is okay." 

Without responding, Bill grabbed the corners of the sleeping bag and backed into the duct. Aroos whimpered, but stayed very still. John grabbed the camp lantern and used it to light the tunnel. He could see Anthea and another set of female legs waiting for them at the exit. As John finally stood, he recognized the other woman as one of the doctors from the staff medical facility at MI6. They'd worked together on a series of health assessments run on agents. "Andrea," John nodded in acknowledgment. Andrea nodded in return, and then set straight to work coordinating lifting Aroos into the backseat of the waiting SUV. 

"I've got it from here, John." Andrea patted John's shoulder and ushered Bill into the SUV ahead of her. John could hear her speaking soothingly to Aroos in Dari as the door was slammed shut behind her. He sighed as he watched them pull out into traffic, and realized he was clutching the first aid bag to his chest.

 _Nothing like feeling completely useless and obsolete in the time of crisis_ John thought to himself wistfully.

"Mr. Holmes is waiting for you, Doctor." John jumped as Anthea suddenly reappeared at his side.

"Right. Of course." John sighed and followed Anthea to the car he hadn't noticed waiting on them. Once settled in the plush leather seat, John glanced at Anthea. "Do you think he'd allow a little time for a quick shower? I did just get off a twenty-four hour shift at the hospital, and I've been crawling around in a hole in the ground."

Anthea typed away at her mobile for a few moments, and responded without looking up. "There will be a fresh set of clothes waiting for you in the locker room on the third floor. You'll have thirty minutes, and then be escorted upstairs."

 _"Splendid."_ John huffed sarcastically, though he suspected he'd not even been heard.

It took twenty minutes to get to their destination. Twenty excruciating minutes in which John had to fight off the fatigue that tried to overtake him, and the errant memories that threatened to break him. Tonight... or tomorrow... or whenever the opportunity to finally sleep presented itself, it was not going to be peaceful. He recognized the anxiety building just under the surface for what it was, and let the memories take him.

He thought of the first time he and Sherlock had been holed up there, in the hidden room, just for a few hours. They'd spent most of the time bickering about the most likely way to corner their suspect. In the end, they had both been wrong, Sherlock had ended up with a sprained wrist and tossed in the skip, and John had been forced to use the Sig (not to fire a shot, but as a blunt instrument). As it was early in their friendship, Sherlock had whined about his wrist and taken advantage of John's compassionate doctor side for a full week before John had had enough and put his foot down.

He thought about all the mad things his mad flatmate had done... All the mad things he in turn had agreed to and encouraged. How he had finally felt alive. How there hadn't been enough time. Just... not enough. John had just worked himself up to a rather indulgent bout of self pity, tinged with self loathing, when they arrived, and he was ushered quickly to the third floor locker room. He thanked the minion -- Kevin was it? -- who showed him up, and then stood post at the door. 

John thought perhaps he should be incensed by the presence of the guard, whose obvious task it was to keep him _in,_ or perhaps even embarrassed by the lack of privacy, but he was just too exhausted to actually care. He found the tidy stack of neatly folded clothes, none of which were actually his, and all of which looked more expensive than his entire wardrobe combined. He rolled his eyes at the lavishness, picked up the wash kit and towels that had been laid out for him, and stumbled off to the shower.

He had thirty minutes and he fully intended to use it. Turning the water up just a little too hot, John stood under the flow and tried to work the ache from his shoulder. He tried to let the warmth ease away his tension, but he found he couldn't shut his off his mind. What he really needed was a stiff drink, or four. The longer he took, the longer he would be stuck here at Mycroft's will. John washed quickly and wrapped himself in one of the towels that was entirely too fluffy for his practical sensibilities, and stepped out from the shower.

The stack of his own clothes had been taken away, his wallet, keys, belt and mobile were all that was left of the pile. He wasn't too concerned. He'd learned early on that everything would show up in a day or two, cleaned and pressed (better than he could ever hope to do), in his work station. Dressing quickly, John marveled at the attention paid to the style and cut of the clothing, the softness of the ridiculously luxuriant jumper, and shade of blue in the plaid pattern of the button up shirt that he couldn't deny highlighted his eyes, despite their sunken and over tired appearance. "Bloody hell, Mycroft." John mumbled as he pulled up the ludicrously soft socks that matched the grey jumper exactly.

"Well, I guess that's it..." John turned to... _Kevin?..._ "No need to prolong the inevitable, yeah?"

"Right this way, Doctor." Kevin (it had to be Kevin... but John was in no mood for small talk) led John to a lift, punched in a code and stood aside as John entered. Kevin entered another code, and the doors whisked shut and the lift shot up. Odd that he'd been left alone. John glanced around the small space, and considered the possibility of popping out a ceiling tile and making a break for it when suddenly the lift eased to a gentle stop and the doors slid open to reveal Anthea tapping away at her mobile.

"He's waiting." Was all the recognition John got, and he followed her silently, ignoring entirely the opulence of the decor and furnishing they passed. John's own security clearance was barely enough to get him in the building of his own volition, his work station was literally a broom closet (albeit, surprisingly spacious) turned windowless office. But he'd been summoned to Mycroft's office on the top floor (it wasn't actually the top floor, there were another two floors above this one, though only security, had access to those) often enough to no longer be shocked by the excess.

Anthea led John through a door into an outer office, a space he had deemed _Anthea's Realm,_ and knocked twice sharply on the door at the back of the room. A muffled response, and Anthea pushed the door open for John.

"Mycroft." John nodded once at the British government.

"John." Without looking away from the computer monitor in front of him, Mycroft motioned for John to have a seat. "Tea?"

"Anything a little stronger?"

Mycroft glanced up at John with both eyebrows raised. Clearing his throat, he nodded to Anthea. The two men sat in silence, Mycroft staring at his computer monitor, and John staring at nothing in particular, until Anthea returned with a tray containing two tumblers of brandy, a plate of sandwiches, and a tea service. She placed a tumbler at Mycroft's elbow and handed one to John, then offered them each a sandwich. Mycroft accepted, John declined. They sat in silence a moment longer as Anthea excused herself and John sipped his drink.

"I suppose I have you to thank for the clothes?" John swirled his tumbler causing the liquid inside to splash up the sides.

"Consider them a Christmas gift." Mycroft waved his hand dismissively and finished off his sandwich.

John scoffed. "And here, I didn't get you anything." 

"Actually," Mycroft sipped at his drink. "You might be surprised to learn that the assessments you provided last week led our agents to identify a cafe in Turkey being used as a front for that human trafficking ring we've been tracking. Mere hours ago our men took the facility, captured the ring leader, as well as several of his men, and liberated dozens of captives."

"And the shop here in London?" John placed his empty tumbler on the side table and pulled his chair a little closer to Mycroft's desk.

"It was a good tip. The leader admitted it was a front to our undercover agent before the raid even happened." Mycroft grinned a knowing smile, a smile that meant he knew far more than he was letting on. It was a look Sherlock had employed often. It was a look that annoyed John to his very core.

"Wait... The agent encountered the leader? Are they secure?"

"The agent made it to safety before the raid. The location is classified above your security level." John seethed at Mycroft's smugness. "There was, however, a credible threat made against..." Mycroft paused to consider his words. " _Home_ base."

"What the hell does that even mean, Mycroft?" Agitated, John stood and prepared two cups of tea. Mycroft watched with a haughty smirk on his face.

"It means it was necessary to raid the London shop this afternoon as well. There were only low level underlings present, no captives, though there was evidence of them having been there recently. Also, it required that extra security precautions be taken." Mycroft took the cup of tea from John, and the two shared a meaningful glance.

" _Me?_ He threatened me?" John laughed in disbelief. "Why? Did he say why?"

"You were spotted on the security footage of the London shop. The ring leader is originally from London, and recognized you from the papers. His threat was made based on your partnership with my brother." Mycroft's voice wavered.

"Oh." John swallowed hard. "I... I think I can figure the rest out from there." He scrubbed his hand over his face. " _God._ Is... Is there still a threat?"

"Our intelligence revealed there are still a few men here in the city. The leader is, as you can imagine, not being cooperative. I've reviewed the reports, and I am of the opinion there is still a reasonable amount of danger if you attempt to return to Baker Street." Mycroft dropped his chin, and looked at John squarely. "I would be remiss if I didn't offer to allow you to stay in secure housing until the threat has been eliminated."

"Is Mrs. Hudson safe?" John slumped into his chair, tea forgotten on the tray.

"She has gone to visit her sister, and will be gone for the next two weeks." Mycroft folded his hands on the desk. "We believe that to be more than sufficient."

John cursed and exhaled slowly. "Right. Well, what choice do I have? Can I contact the clinic? And Greg?""

"You may... You know the protocols."

John nodded numbly, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. "Is there time for me to try to sleep before I report to work?"

"Take the whole day. I cannot fathom how it is you are still functioning now as it is. You've worked a full twenty-four hours at the hospital, and spent several hours here and handling the girl..."

"Aroos..." John sat up and placed both hands on Mycroft's desk. "How is Aroos? And the baby?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "The girl will recover."

"Oh God. The baby didn't make it?" John groaned.

"I'm afraid not." Mycroft's pained expression was clearly feigned. John bit his tongue. "You mentioned something to Anthea about her being caught up in the human trafficking ring?"

"Just a hunch, I guess." John shrugged. "She wouldn't say much. But she had a definite aversion to soldiers, and when she figured out that I was a soldier, she was afraid that I would take her again. _Again._ With the exception of the ring leader, most of his men we caught on CCTV and security footage wore military style clothing." 

Mycroft nodded. "Do you have any other insight?"

"Well, I only know Pashto, but I've picked up enough Dari to recognize words, though not well enough to speak it fluently. I know that more people speak Pashto in Afghanistan, but that most University curriculum is taught in Dari. That Aroos spoke Dari revealed her upbringing. Her father is educated, and has chosen Dari as the primary language for his family. But she understood Pashto enough to discriminate against it, meaning that his chosen career field is one where he interacts with people who also speak Pashto. He could be a doctor, but more likely his career is one that would lend itself to having visitors in his home, most possibly business, as most associates in finance or politics would also speak Dari. Aroos wouldn't have been taken without the security that she would bring either a high ransom, or a steep payout on the market. So her father is some sort of business mogul. If we identify him, we will likely be able to find the branch of the ring in operation in Afghanistan." John sat back in his chair and stared at Mycroft.

"Excellent, John." Mycroft's smile was genuine. "We are searching for intelligence now." He opened a desk drawer and retrieved a business journal. He tossed it onto the desk and pushed it toward John. "That." He pointed to the man on the cover. "Is the girl's father." 

John whistled low when he recognized the executive. "Did Aroos confirm?" 

"She did." Mycroft nodded. "She also corroborated your theory that men dressed in military attire, shouting in Pashto, were the ones who took her, and that she was kept at the location here in London where, in their leader's absence, his team abused and raped the girl. The young man..."

"Bill Wiggins. One of Sherlock's homeless network." John supplied.

"Indeed. Mr. Wiggins, it appears, aided in her escape. We're still working out all the details of how they managed it." 

John smiled fondly. "Will Aroos return to Afghanistan?" 

Mycroft checked his watch. "Her father is on his way here as we speak."

John hummed in acknowledgment. "Poor Bill. I think he was rather smitten."

"Unless the girl's father is amenable to his daughter _living rough_ in the alleys of London, I don't see that there is anything Mr. Wiggins can do about it." Mycroft scrunched his face in disgust.

"He'll still be broken hearted." John frowned at Mycroft's reaction. 

"All hearts are broken." Mycroft shrugged.

"Yeah, and caring is not an advantage. I'm well aware of your opinion on the matter, Mycroft." John attempted, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn.

"Perhaps you would like to retire to your quarters? You'll find everything you need as far as clothing and toiletries already in place."

John yawned once more. "I think I ought to." He stood and stretched out his hand to Mycroft. The other man stared at him blankly. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"Ah..." Mycroft cleared his throat and stood to shake John's hand.

"Just a show of goodwill, yeah? I appreciate the security, even though I bluster and fuss about it. I know this is hard," he pointed first to Mycroft and then back to himself. "It's hard for me too. I look at you and all I can see... all I can hear... is _him._ Just know, I miss him too. And I know he would want you to ensure my safety if you were in a position to do so. I know that's why you hired me on, and I know that's why you're doing all of this. It's the only reason I'm accepting. So, for the sake of the memory of that great pain in the arse, your brother, and my friend... _Thank you._ "

Mycroft hummed in agreement. Anthea entered then, face buried in her mobile, and waited for John to follow her.

"Happy Christmas, John."

"It's not really, is it?" John shrugged. "Perhaps next year."

"Indeed."


	26. Christmas Eve, 2014: Sherlock & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first Christmas after Sherlock's return. Sherlock's on a case, and John uncovers a secret about the first time they met at Bart's (or was it?).
> 
> Heads up: loooong chapter (was going to be multiple, but decisions were made). No whump, but plenty of angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very brief and loose shout out to ACD's "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle."

"John! Jooohnn!" Sherlock bellowed as he fumbled to get the front door to 221 Baker Street open. He stumbled across the threshold and shouted gleefully once more. "John! The case... I _knew_ there was a case. John!" He clamored up the stairs to the flat.

"Good heavens, Sherlock. Whatever are you carrying on about?" Mrs. Hudson stepped out of her flat. She was drying her hands on her apron.

"A case..." Sherlock backtracked a few steps to address his landlady. "I have to tell John that he was wrong and I was right!" He charged back up the steps then.

"I don't think he's up there dear. I haven't heard him moving around all day!" Mrs. Hudson called up after Sherlock. The only response she got was the slamming of the flat door. She shook her head and grinned. "Those boys."

Sherlock leaned against the door he had slammed only long enough to catch his breath. He began pacing the width of the sitting room, hands and mouth flying wildly as he spoke.

"John, it was brilliant. A brilliant scheme. And they almost got away with it. If you hadn't complained about that market being out of frozen chickens, I never would suspected. Oh, it was ingenious, really! The butcher stored all the frozen poultry, chicken, turkey, goose, everything, in a freezer behind the counter. In over half the frozen birds, he had removed the packets containing the necks and other revolting innards, and replaced them with packets of the same weight of different types of drugs. Costumers would have to answer a question, and depending on their answer, they'd get either a regular bird, or one stuffed with drugs. The drug birds brought a much higher price, of course."

Sherlock paused to look out the window. "Oh, it was like Christmas. I mean, I know it _is_ Christmas tomorrow, but this case was brilliant. The first true caper, not just a dull crime scene, since I've been home. I got to go undercover. There were back alley drug deals, thugs, and a marginally intelligent criminal. I was able to find and solve a crime that was happening right in front of the MET, and they were oblivious! And it was roughly a seven. The only thing I regret is that I had you stay behind this morning when I left to observe the operation. Everything happened so quickly, and your added support would have come in very useful."

He rubbed the blossoming bruise on his jaw and turned away from the window. "So, there really was a case. I _was_ right, and you... were..." Sherlock slowed his rambling to a halt as he finally glanced around the sitting room.

They'd not had time to decorate properly for Christmas. John had been inclined to skip it altogether, but Sherlock had _hinted_ that he'd really like to, since it was his first Christmas home and all. John had relented and brought the box of fairy lights and garlands down from the attic just that morning. The box sat on the coffee table where John had placed it, untouched. The flat remained undecorated.

It was going on half four in the afternoon. On a dreary December day in London, there wasn't much light available through the windows, which meant the absence of lamp light left the flat bathed in shadow. Odd. John always had at least one of the side lamps on.

And the dreary weather was part of the reason Sherlock had insisted John stay home. The temperature had been frigid for the past several days, and John's shoulder had been aching as a result. Sherlock noticed that the flat was actually quite chilled, and the fire hadn't been tended to for hours.

John was sat in his chair, head slightly bowed, with something gripped tightly in his hands. He was as still as Sherlock had ever seen him. The fact that his breathing was controlled and slightly forced let him know the doctor had not dozed off. He was fully dressed, including his shoes, as he had been this morning. He had been prepared to brave the shops on Christmas Eve. What appeared to be a full mug of tea lay spilled at the side of the chair, the puddle of tea had spread out and sat long enough that it was turning to a sticky film of goo. It didn't look like John had missed the side table, but that he had dropped the mug outright.

"John?" Sherlock approached carefully. If this were a flashback or panic attack of some sort, he wouldn't want to get too close in case John's response was a violent one. But if he'd received bad news, Sherlock knew his friend would want him near. John's mobile chimed with a text, and Sherlock realized that the phone was laying on the table next to John's wallet, keys, and gloves. He'd laid them out while he was getting ready. He managed to see that John had twenty unread texts and two missed calls before the screen went dark. So John hadn't touched his mobile all day.

Another few paces closer. "John? Are you unwell? Has something happened?" From where he stood Sherlock could see that John wasn't as still as he initially appeared. He was incredibly tense, it seemed every muscle was flexing and vibrating as he fought to maintain control. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. And then John blinked. He didn't move. Didn't acknowledge Sherlock, but he did blink. "John, can you hear me? It's Sherlock. I need to know what's happening. What do you need? How can I help you?" He stretched his hand out to John, but didn't actually touch him.

"Shut. Up." John's voice was gravelly and low, he all but growled the words out. He'd been crying at some point.

Frozen in place by the unexpectedly harsh response, Sherlock cleared his throat. "John, please, I just..."

"I said _shut up._ You've done enough talking." It would have been better, Sherlock thought, if John were shouting. As it was, this growling was more than a little alarming. John was so measured. So controlled. Sherlock couldn't read him. He thought perhaps this was John Watson in a proper rage, but he couldn't be certain.

The not knowing was killing him. He had to know what had caused this reaction, which meant he would have to push John, and suffer the consequences.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind questioned whether, after two and a half years away, Sherlock truly wanted to take the risk. If the cost might prove to be too high.

He squashed that voice right down.

"So, are you going to tell me what offensive, socially unacceptable thing you think I've done this time, or shall I deduce it?" Sherlock fixed his face into a derisive sneer. "I thought, after nearly two months back, we would've been through with these emotional dramatics John. I'm really rather disappointed..."

Without looking up, and without raising his voice, John interrupted. "You lied. To me." John was still growling, the words were absolutely feral. Sherlock's blood seemed to suddenly go cold, and his stomach clenched.

"I... I'm sorry... Wha... When? You know why I had to jump..." John’s indictment sent Sherlock's mind off-line for a moment as he scrambled to figure out what John could be referring to.

"Was that day... the day you jumped, _in front of me,_ the first time you actually told me the truth about anything? What was it you said? _'Nobody could be that clever._ ' Found this in your alias kit." John all but spat the last words as he tossed the item he'd been gripping at Sherlock's feet. "Research?"

Sherlock blanched and stumbled back a few steps as if he'd been punched in the gut. It certainly felt as if all the air had been forced from his lungs. He looked down at the tatty old wallet laying at his feet, the contents spilled out onto the floor. A very young John Watson stared up at him from the university student I.D. card. "John." Sherlock's voice cracked as he forced himself to look at his flatmate. It was desperate, and terrified, and an appeal all in one. "Please... You have to..."

"What? I have to what, Sherlock? Believe you?" John raised his voice marginally, though he was still growling as he spoke. "Because I don't." He gripped the arms of his chair as if he were hanging on for dear life. "Not any more. This is too much... It's too far..."

Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips and shook his head. "No, John. Please." He could barely manage more than a whisper.

"Almost four years now since we met. Or... Well, you already knew me, didn't you? Lied to me with the very first words. _'Afghanistan or Iraq?'_ You bloody well already knew. And you knew the whole time Harry was my sister, but you had to make it believable didn't you? Couldn’t play all your cards at once. You let me be impressed. What an idiot I must've sounded like to you, carrying on about how brilliant and amazing you were. Did you come back here after that day at Bart's and have a good laugh at the foolish crippled doctor. So gullible. So desperate for anyone to notice him. Thought it'd be a lark to play your mind games on me, yeah? Did you decide to keep me around as an experiment then? See how long it would take me to figure it out?"

Sometime during his tirade John had managed to stand and turn to face Sherlock. He'd also begun shouting in earnest, red faced and shaking. Not just trembling, but quaking.

Still shaking his head, Sherlock could only whisper a repeated, ragged litany of "No. No, John, no. John, please. No."

" _Are_ you disappointed in me, Sherlock? Did I take too long? Bloody hell, I'm stupid. Such an idiot. It took you wearing that damned cap, it's the same one isn't it? From that night on the street? And Mrs. Hudson's infernal Christmas records, and that song... 'I'll Be Home For Christmas.'" John was nearly at a roar as he unleashed an obscene diatribe of every vulgarity he could think of. "I'm such a fool. To think that _anyone_ would want me as a friend... Would sacrifice of themselves for me... Let alone someone like you, up on your pedestal, so out of the reach of all us commoners."

"John." Begging. Sherlock was begging now. "John." He took a step forward. There was nothing to be done about the tears streaming from his eyes. "Never... never a disappointment. You... You're my best friend. My only friend."

John laughed bitterly at that. "Almost convincing, Sherlock."

The detective drew in a sharp breath as if John had just slapped him. He wished he would. He willed John to stop saying these horrible, self loathing, hateful words and turn his focus back onto Sherlock. He'd willingly allow John to beat him within an inch of his own life, if only he'd stop talking. He pulled the cursed cap from his head, he'd only worn it for a disguise, and took another step toward his flatmate. "Hit me, John. Like you did when I first came back. It'll make you feel better."

John’s eyes grew wide in horror and the color drained from his face. "What? You think... You think the best possible response would be for me to lash out like _he_ use to? You want to see how very like my father I really am? Is this a game to you? Am I only an experiment waiting to happen?"

"John... No. That’s not what..." Sherlock was cut short then when Mrs. Hudson entered carrying a plate of gingerbread men.

"Boys. Whatever is the matter? I can hardly hear my records over all the shouting." She turned to John sympathetically. "What silly thing has he gone and done now, dear?"

John took a controlled breath in, clenched and unclenched his fists, and forced himself to smile. It was his deadly, straight lipped, teeth gritted smile that meant certain death, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Sorry for the noise Mrs. Hudson." He chuckled, but the sound was hollow and turned Sherlock's stomach. "It wasn't Sherlock who's done the silly thing. It was me."

"Oh?" Mrs. Hudson looked surprised as she glanced between her boys. Sherlock held his breath and clutched the infuriating cap to his chest.

"Yeah." John stepped to the table and grabbed his wallet. Shoving it in his pocket he brushed past Sherlock and stepped up beside Mrs. Hudson. Without looking back, he shrugged. "I believed in Sherlock Holmes. Silly me." Mrs. Hudson gasped as she placed a hand over her mouth. Sherlock, shattered, did nothing to contain the sob that rose from his chest. John pulled on his coat quickly and stepped out onto the landing. "I'll just go now."

"John!" Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock cried simultaneously. The elderly lady seemed frozen in her spot, but Sherlock dove through the door and caught John by the arm.

"Please! John..."

With a roar, John turned on Sherlock until he had him backed up and pinned against the door frame. "Do not touch me. And do. Not. Follow. Me." With a shove John forced Sherlock back into the flat and slammed the door behind him. He all but ran down the steps and slammed the front door with such force it rattled the windows.

Sherlock stumbled to the window and threw it open. He leaned out as far as he could in order to see which way John had marched himself off to. He assumed the tube station, but was dismayed to see no sign of John anywhere. Sherlock cursed and slammed both fists on the window sill. "He took a cab. He never takes cabs." He closed the window with a bit too much force, and began pacing the room frantically. Drawing to a stop in front of the bookshelves, he noticed one of Mycroft's intrusive spy cameras. Oh brilliant. He'd probably seen the whole thing.

Wait. _Brilliant._ Mycroft had probably seen the whole thing. Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

_"Use your ridiculous authority position to do something useful and find John. -SH"_

_"Whatever has happened, dear brother? -MH"_

_"I've ruined everything. -SH"_

_"But you already knew that. -SH"_

_"We have eyes on his cab. I'll keep you updated. -MH"_

_"Thank you, My. -SH"_

_"And brother? For both his sake, and yours, fix this. -MH"_

Sherlock shoved the mobile in his pocket and turned around in time to see Mrs. Hudson stooping over the mess of John's old wallet on the floor. She sniffled. "What is all this, dear?"

"No!" Sherlock dove to his knees and crowded Mrs. Hudson away from the wallet. "Please, Mrs. Hudson. I just need some space."

She placed the plate of biscuits on the table and patted Sherlock's shoulder lovingly. "Give him some time dear. He'll come around. You boys always work it out."

"I'm just not so sure this time." Sherlock mumbled. "I really messed up."

"Did you do anything to hurt him intentionally?"

"Not intentionally, no. But the motivation was purely selfish, despite John being his kind, compassionate, brilliant self." Sherlock groaned and pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes. "He's never coming back."

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson squeezed his shoulder.

"There is no excuse for me this time. He won't forgive me." Sherlock hung his head and gingerly began picking up the bits and pieces of John's past life, his life pre-Sherlock Holmes. Well, with the exception of that time Sherlock had punched him in the face. Oh God, had John remembered that too? Sherlock groaned once again.

"But Sherlock, it's John."

"I know. And he deserves better. So very much better." Sherlock looked up at Mrs. Hudson and could no longer contain himself. He wrapped his arms around her waist and wept into her hip.

"Oh, my dear boy." She dabbed her own tears with a handkerchief and then wrapped her arms protectively around Sherlock's shoulders. "Your clever brother will find him, you'll make it right, and John will forgive all."

"H-how could you po-pothibly know that?" Sherlock wiped his eyes and his nose on Mrs. Hudson's apron before looking up at her.

“I know because you are Sherlock Holmes, and he is John Watson. These things are obvious." Mrs. Hudson attempted to pat Sherlock's unruly mop of curls into some semblance of order, but gave up with a smile. "Up with you now. I'll make some tea, we'll hang these decorations, and wait for John."

Sherlock allowed Mrs. Hudson to help him up off the floor. He placed John’s old wallet next to the gloves, keys and mobile he'd left there when he stormed out. Sherlock refused to contemplate the implication of such a decision. He noticed Mrs. Hudson's concerned glance at the items on the table, gently guided her by the elbow to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Of course dear." She patted his arm and went to work. "And I'll clean up the spill while I'm here. But just this once, mind you."

Sherlock chuckled despite himself as he paced the room. He checked his mobile every two minutes and eyed the third step leading up to John's room. No. Certainly John wouldn't still have the cigarettes, and if he did, he wouldn't be pleased that Sherlock had smoked them if he were to come back. When. When, not if. Not. If.

"Tea's ready, dear. Why don't you sit?"

Sherlock waved his hand noncommittally  and turned to stare out the window. It was fully dark out now. And the temperature had dropped well below freezing. The street was mostly empty, as families were gathering inside their brightly lit homes to begin their celebrations. But inside 221b Baker Street, the mood mirrored the dark, frozen, desolate street below.

Just as Sherlock was contemplating throwing himself onto the couch, a text arrived. Mrs. Hudson looked up expectantly. It was the name and address of an antiques shop.

_"What am I supposed to do with this? -SH"_

_"John is currently at that location. I suggest you hurry. They close soon. -MH"_

"Mycroft found him. I..." Sherlock stood with his hands hanging at his sides. "What do I do, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Go!" She grabbed Sherlock’s coat and shoved it at him. "Go and drag him in here out of the cold. This is his home. Besides, his shoulder will be aching something fierce the longer he's out there."

"But John said..."

"Well, you'll still need to apologize, won't you? Now off with you!"

Sherlock wrapped his scarf securely around his throat, buttoned his coat carefully, and slowly pulled on his gloves.

"Sherlock! Don't you _want_ to go find him?" Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms over her chest.

"I do... I'm just afraid he'll... What if he won't come back. What if all of this..." Sherlock swept his arm broadly to indicate the entire flat. "What if this is it? What if we're done?"

"Impossible!" Mrs. Hudson scooped John's belongings up off the table and shoved them into Sherlock's gloved hands. "Go. Now." She manhandled him to the door and shoved him through. "Wait." She returned with a bundle of gingerbread wrapped in a tea towel. "He gets hungry. Now go!"

"Yes ma'am," Sherlock ducked his head and smiled fondly. He kissed his landlady on the cheek and hurried down the stairs, tucking John's keys and mobile securely in his pockets. His own mobile alerted him to a message then.

_"He's left the shop. Headed north on foot. -MH"_

Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to the shop. He considered the neighborhood where the shop was located, and considered any possible destination. "Oh my God."

_"I know where he's headed. I'm on my way there now. -SH"_

Sherlock informed the driver of the change and offered him an additional ten to hurry it along. The streets were mostly clear, so the driver was happy to oblige, as long as it meant getting the nervous, twitchy, intense man out of his car. The car had barely come to a stop when Sherlock tossed the money at the driver and tumbled gracelessly from the car.

Frantic, Sherlock glanced around the oh-so-familiar intersection. He'd saved an exact replica of it from _that_ night six years ago in the mind palace. Little had changed; the bulbs in the streetlamps were the eco friendly ones, and the ornamental blossoming trees had gotten taller. The buildings were mostly the same. The same lighted decorations adorned each post. The same street vendor with the same terrible coffee occupied the same corner. Sherlock scanned the corner where he'd stood playing his violin. Empty. The section of sidewalk where John had danced with Clara was also empty. He turned to jog down the side street John would have come from and froze.

There sat John on a park bench, brows furrowed, watching his every move, and sipping on a cup of the awful coffee. They stared at each other across the street for a moment. Sherlock dropped his hands to his side and contemplated just running away. He could. He'd done it for two and a half years. Leave Baker Street behind. Leave John to live his life. He could do it... John deserved better...

John held up a second cup of coffee in an invitation to approach. Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep his jaw from dropping. And to keep from grinning. John had every right to be angry with him. Not only had Sherlock lied to him the entirety of their friendship, but he'd ordered Sherlock not to follow him, yet there he stood. Despite that, John had still thought of Sherlock. John definitely deserved better.

Sherlock trotted across the street quickly, but once he reached the sidewalk he approached John’s bench slowly. Reverently. This was a place he did not deserve to be invited. John handed the coffee up to him, and with a quick tilt of his head invited Sherlock to sit on the bench next to him. Sherlock took his seat silently, watching John in his peripheral vision, knowing John was doing the same. He took a sip of the coffee and grimaced.

"It's as awful as I remembered." Sherlock spoke softly, but it still seemed too loud in the stillness of the night.

"I told you not to follow me." John’s voice rang hollow and added to the chill surrounding Sherlock. He wrapped his hands around the paper cup in an attempt to warm them. Sherlock pulled the gloves from his pocket and handed them to John. "Uhm. Thanks."

"Why come here, John?" Sherlock held John's coffee for him while he put on his gloves.

"I spent all day, after I realized, and after I'd found the wallet, thinking. Scrutinizing every single detail. I took apart each day going back over them. The most obvious lie being leaving me to think you were dead. The blatant truth you'd told me about researching me before that day at Bart's, but I was too blinded to see it." He took a sip of his coffee and glanced at Sherlock. "You said it was just a magic trick, and I held on to hope for months that you had meant you weren't dead and you'd be back. _Months,_ Sherlock. I just didn't realize that you actually meant something else. You literally pulled the oldest street performer's trick on me. You lifted my wallet, picked out the important details, and the next time we met, you read me the cards so to speak."

John paused and exhaled a shuddering breath. He pressed his hand across his eyes, and inhaled deeply. "When I thought back over the past four years since I'd met you properly, and the two years before that, this... here... That Christmas Eve was the last time anything in my life made sense. My sister was sober and happy. I was still a surgeon. And an officer in the military, on track for promotion. My life was laid out. That night I was the happiest I've ever been. And then I went back to Afghanistan, and not even a year and a half later I was shot, invalided, alone, and useless. I..." John swallowed hard and avoided Sherlock's gaze.

"When we met at Bart's, I was done, Sherlock. Every day that week, I had gotten out of bed, cleaned and loaded the Sig, and held it in my hand just to feel the weight of it. I'd ask myself if that was the day I was finally ready. If I had ignored Mike that day, I don't know if I'd be here now. You saved my life that day, Sherlock. So, imagine... just... God. I was going to blow my brains out, and I didn't because this amazing man saw something alive in me. And now that I know that wasn't true, that there wasn't really something special there, that everything you said was just the oldest trick in the book... Damn it Sherlock. All those feelings of being useless and alone flooded back. I felt exactly the way I did that morning before I met you at Bart's. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"John... I need to..."

"Don't apologize. It's too late for that. It's six years too late, Sherlock." John stared straight ahead.

"No. You're right. It's too late for apologies. But... I need to tell you a story. About that night." Sherlock took a drink of his now tepid coffee and nearly gagged. He tossed the cup in the bin next to the bench. Pulling his knees up toward his chest, he planted his heels on the edge of the bench seat and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Comfortable?" John snarked.

"Hardly. But that's nothing new." Sherlock chanced a smile in John's direction, but got only a sigh in return.

"John, by the night you asked me to play that ridiculous song, I was... I'd been using for ten years." Sherlock paused at John's sharp intake of breath. He waited for any other response. When there was none, he continued. "My family had me forced into _rehab_ once, I'd gone on my own once, tried to quit cold turkey on my own three times, and nearly died four times. Two overdoses and two tainted batches. I had alienated myself from my family because of my choices. I dropped out of university with one term left because I thought I understood more than the professors did, which I still believe to be true. But no one hires a chemist who doesn't have a degree."

Sherlock rested his forehead on his knee. "I had only just started working with Lestrade, but not much. He didn't really trust me, with good reason, and I didn't really trust him because I thought he was reporting on me to my brother. I'm still not convinced he isn't... but that's beside the point. He'd offered to help me get clean, but I just didn't think I was ready. I didn't know what I wanted. I wanted the drugs. There was security there. I wanted to be clean and working for Lestrade because I felt alive solving the puzzles. But mostly I just wanted peace. I wanted my mind to be still." He looked at John.

"I know our lives have been so different. But I understand feeling broken, useless, and definitely alone. Wanting everything to just stop. Having the desire to make it all stop, to force an end your way, because it's the only thing you feel you have control over. But taking the steps to do so are just so exhausting. And that night, John, I was done too. I was so tired. I hated everyone and everything. I hated playing the violin right then. And God, I hated you when you walked up. You were so happy, I mean, I literally played the saddest piece I knew when I heard you coming to try to make you all shut up."

John huffed a quiet laugh at that, and ducked his head. "We were being pretty obnoxious."

Humming his agreement, Sherlock tossed John’s empty coffee cup in the bin. "And there you were, all straight lines and proper, and you just marched right up to me... and I could see the appreciation for what I was doing in your eyes. Then you challenged me. You... all but dared me to play that bloody ridiculous song that I had never heard of. But you didn't challenge me for the reason most people did, which was to prove a point. You challenged me because you genuinely thought I could _keep up,_ because you believed in my ability. And then... Then you... You did something no one ever does. No one had ever done. You kept your word. It wasn't about the money. I was prepared to give it all back to you, but... You came back. Then you gave me that God awful coffee," Sherlock half sobbed half laughed, "and you took your scarf and gloves off and gave them to me. No one... Who does that, John? Why? Why did you do that?"

"There was something," John turned in his seat to face Sherlock, "I don't know. You needed a friend, to know someone cared about you. What you did that night, the music, it was brilliant. But there was something more about you. I don't... I don't know. I couldn't even look you in the eyes because you were wearing the bloody cap."

With the back of his hand, Sherlock wiped tears from his eyes. "John, I did need a friend. But I also knew I didn't deserve a friend, couldn't maintain a friendship if I didn't get clean. But I didn't know how to do any of that. To be a decent human being that someone might enjoy being around. Or to be aware of other people and their needs. I just... You were the first person to ever show me those things, and I wanted... No, I needed to be better because of you. I thought the only way to do that was to learn everything about you, but you had already said you were going back to Afghanistan. So, I took your wallet."

"You do know now that's not an acceptable way to make friends, right? Replacing that military I.D. was a pain in the arse. I wished all sorts of nasty things on the person who took it." John chuckled.

"Well, your wish came true. That very night, I called Lestrade and he helped me get into a rehab plan that _actually_ helped me. But withdrawal is... terrible. I definitely suffered for my sins. And... I haven't  used since then, John. You're... You are part of the reason I got clean. And I did research you. I... I found so much. Your mum's passing, the violence at your father's hands, and then his early death. I saw Harry's police records, and your lack of police records. I saw your stellar school records and university performances. Your commendations in the military. I found so many things, and they all told a story of perseverance, but nothing I found could explain to me what it was about you that made you so caring and compassionate."

"Sherlock..."

"No, John, you deserve to know this. I just... I was fascinated by you. Certainly you were intelligent and skilled, but what made you truly brilliant, on the other hand, was this... innate part of you that I just couldn't... grasp. My entire life I was use to hearing 'he's clever, but..' or 'he's a genius, but...' and I knew the _but_ was always followed by my lack of some social nicety, or some understanding of the general human condition. I only knew one person who exemplified that understanding, and it was you. When I found your blog, and I knew you were in London, I had to find you. Mike had mentioned several times that he thought he had seen an old mate from university in the park. I took a chance, and mentioned to him about wanting to find a flatmate... which _was_ true."

John scoffed at that. "So you even manipulated Mike? God, Sherlock."

"Well it worked. I wasn't expecting him to bring you to Bart's that same day. I wasn't prepared... I had so many questions I wanted to ask you, so many things... But you came in with that cane, and I could see... God, John, I could tell how far gone you were. I almost didn't recognize you. And I wasn't prepared to see you that way. The strength and compassion were still there, but those things, the real you, they were trapped under all that brokenness. And... I remembered that night you kept your word, and you showed me compassion. All I wanted was to give you something to live for as you had done for me. So... I deduced you. I really didn't know about your leg before that day, so that was genuine. It was evident you didn't recognize me, and then... everything happened so fast, and it didn't ever seem necessary to tell you the truth, because this," Sherlock waved his hand between them, "worked."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do with this?" John gripped the edge of the bench and looked down at the ground. "I don't... It doesn't change the fact that you lied to me. That the entire friendship was built on lies. Trusting is _hard_ for me, Sherlock."

"You trusted me before." Sherlock hated the fact that they both knew he was pleading for forgiveness with that statement.

"I trusted you because you were the most brutally honest person I'd ever met. You told me truths about myself that no one else had ever taken the time to notice." John scrubbed his hand over his face and shivered.

"None of that is changed by the fact that I researched you. I hid that one thing from you, but everything else I said to you was the truth." The two stared at each other for several moments.

"Get a cab. I'm freezing." John crossed his arms over his chest. "We're not settled on this. I just need to think."

"Are we going to Baker Street?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

John sighed. "Yes, of course."

"Good. Yes... Good." Standing from the bench, Sherlock handed John the bundle of biscuits from his pocket. "You're hungry. Mrs. Hudson sent those for you." John blinked in surprise, and Sherlock stepped to the edge of the street to get a cab.

The ride to Baker Street was silent so that John could think and eat his biscuits in peace. Sherlock felt as if one weight had been lifted off his shoulders because John had agreed to come home. But there seemed to be a weight resting on his chest, and he suspected it was because the situation was so very precarious. John could still decide to leave.

Sherlock was quick to pay the cab driver when they arrived home, and equally as quick to open the front door. When he offered to help John take off his coat, he knew he'd crossed a line.

"Stop. Just stop this. For godsake, Sherlock. I'm going to get changed, and then we can talk." John headed up the stairs to his room and Sherlock dashed down the hall to his own room.

Sherlock changed quickly, dashed to the kitchen to start tea and toast, and built the fire up a bit. He noticed then that Mrs. Hudson had strung up the garlands and fairy lights. Sherlock turned off the bright overhead light, opting for the softer glow of the lamps and fairy lights. Wait. Did it seem as if he were trying to be romantic? No, that wouldn't do. He just wanted John to be comfortable in his home. His home at Baker Street. He considered turning the lights back on when John came down the steps.

"Looks nice. I'd forgotten how the place looked decorated up." John glanced around the room.

"MissusHudsondidit." Sherlock offered in a panic, and then turned quickly to retreat to the kitchen.

"Okaayy." John huffed a laugh. "You okay, Sherlock? Is... is that toast?" He followed his flatmate into the kitchen. Sherlock had started another batch of toast and was waiting for the tea to steep. He nodded sheepishly.

"Right." John took over finishing up the tea as Sherlock managed the butter and jam on the toast. John took his tea and toast and settled into his armchair to be nearer the fire. Sherlock did the same, but sat picking at his toast and pensively watching John’s every movement.

"Okay, that's just creepy. Stop staring at me." John frowned and set his tea aside. Sherlock sighed and stared down at the mess of his shredded toast.

"Look, Sherlock. This hurts, yeah? I mean, you jumping off a building, not being dead, but not coming back for two and and half years? That hurts because you couldn't trust me enough to keep the secret, or to go along and help. But this... this hurts because you just outright lied to me from the very beginning. I understand your reasoning. I don't like it. It was poor logic on your part. But I understand it." John looked Sherlock in the eye and smiled reassuringly.

"I'm going to need some time with this one. To work out these trust issues, yeah? I'm just going to need time. And I need for you to promise that you won't lie, _to me,_ about anything. _Ever._ Can you promise me that? This will be our first test of trust. Say the words and I will trust that you're telling the truth."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and considered the promise. "What if..."

"No. No lies to me. Ever."

With an exasperated sigh and an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Sherlock nodded. "Fine. I promise I will never lie, to _you_ about anything."

"Ever." John added.

 _"Ever."_ Sherlock huffed.

"Good. Thank you." John nodded and picked up his tea. He cleared his throat. "Sherlock, I want to apologize for the way I reacted earlier... For attacking you the way I did. I shouldn't..."

"Please don't, John. You don't have to apologize. You had every right to be angry. If you recall, I didn't think you reacted strongly enough and offered to let you punch me." Sherlock shrugged.

"Is there a shelf life on that offer? I may need it at a later date." John smirked and batted away the piece of toast Sherlock flung at him.

"No, it was definitely a one time offer. You missed a great opportunity. So many people have longed to hear those words." Sherlock smiled when John laughed outright.

John yawned and checked his watch. "Oi! Well, since it's officially Christmas... Here." He pulled a small box wrapped in blue and silver from the pocket of his robe. "You almost didn't get it until next week. I barely made it to the shop on time."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and studied the package. He hesitated only a moment before tearing the paper away to reveal a black velvet box. He cocked an eyebrow at John, who just smiled with expectation in return. He opened the lid to find a silver pocket watch. Clearly an antique, there was a swirling almost floral design etched on the front, and beautiful silver chain attached.

"It's... It's lovely John. I..."

"Open it up, git." John laughed.

The face of the watch was a gorgeous porcelain, the numbers were Roman numerals, and hands were silver and intricately detailed. "John, really, it's..." Sherlock noticed a tiny release at the bottom of the watch. He pressed the tiny lever and the back of the watch opened to reveal a compass. "John... I..."

"With this, you will always find your way." John sniffed, and smiled. "Look at the engraving on the back cover."

Sherlock carefully snapped the compass closed and then the front cover, so he could hold the watch carefully in his hand. John had had _221b Baker Street_ engraved on the back cover. "So I never forget where home is." He smiled up at John, even as he brushed an errant tear away. "This is perhaps the most beautiful, most meaningful gift I have ever received. John, I... I can't thank you enough. I..."

"Just don't go so far next time, yeah?" 

"I promise. And now... for your gift." Sherlock reached under his chair and pulled out a plain white shirt box. "Sorry about the," he waved his hand dismissively at the box. "I'm no good at wrapping things." 

"It's fine, Sherlock." John laughed, and then gasped at the weight of the box. 

"It's from my time away... I thought... Just open it." Sherlock stood from his chair, pressed his fingers to his lips, and began pacing the room.

John gingerly removed the lid of the box to find a standard blue three ring binder. He lifted it out of the box and began quickly flipping through the pages. The deeper he got into the book, the slower the page turns came. Sherlock stopped pacing and stood still to watch John.

"Sherlock... What... Is this? But... how?" John looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide and glittering with tears.

"You've probably figured out by now that all of the health assessments and risk analysis you did for MI6 was for my use." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and sat in his chair. John nodded. 

"I wasn't supposed to keep any of it, but I just couldn't get rid of it. Complete sentiment, I know. But reading your words on the pages was, well, it was a poor substitute, but it was like having you there with me. The scribbles and notes are my own thoughts and observations... as well as criticism of your logic, and arguments I believe we would have had were you there. I also included dates, locations, and the final outcome of each encounter. It's not the same as you being there, but let's say this is a poor man's version of your blog for while I was away. Minus the unnecessary romanticism. I hope..."

"Would you just shut up, you... arse. God, Sherlock. This... this is... I don't have words for what this is." John was openly crying as he ran his finger along some of Sherlock's notes.

"But, is it... it's good, right? You like it?" Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, uncertainty clouding his eyes.

"Yes, yeah, good. Very good, Sherlock. I... I love it." John smiled at his friend. "Thank you. There has never been a more perfect gift."

"I'm not so certain," Sherlock waved his watch at John with a grin.

"Hmm." John looked contentedly back down at his book, and then up at his flatmate. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

"And to you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got more chapters outlined. I can do more, if you're all down for post New Year Christmas stories. Thoughts?


	27. Christmas Eve, 2015: Sherlock & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is fair in love and war.
> 
> Even when everything is fake...
> 
> Except the pregnancy. That's for real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing _my_ version of Mary Morstan. She's what could have been... If John  & Sherlock had known everything up front, hired her as a private contractor/assasin-for-hire, and they all agreed a fake marriage between John & Mary would be a perfect cover. I actually do recommend you check out chapter five of [CRUCIAL](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4399382/chapters/11235073) to learn more about Mary's bamf-ery, and her untimely demise, which actually plays the next chapter of this story.
> 
> ALSO, John's pocket watch was an idea planted by [notjustmom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom), in her story [LAST RITES](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5024167?view_adult=true), a companion piece she wrote for chapter six of CRUCIAL.

"What have you two done? We agreed. No gifts!" Greg crossed his arms over his chest and glared pointedly at the packages John had just wrangled down the stairs from his room.

"Oh, right." John laughed as he deposited the gifts on the coffee table and stood to dig in his pocket. "And what is this then?" John pulled out the new pocket watch and cradled it gingerly in both hands.

He'd never seen a more beautiful watch. Perhaps it wasn't as posh as the one with all the diamonds and nonsense Mycroft had tried to buy him off with, but it was stunning in its simplicity. It was made of titanium, with a matching chain. All clean lines and very masculine. The face of the watch was black with the numbers set into a contrasting band of titanium. There was also a tiny compass set into the face, and John knew that was Sherlock's doing. The back of the watch was made of shatter-proof glass (he knew that claim would be tested soon enough) to reveal the inner workings. On the front had been engraved  _We band of brothers_ and John knew that was all Greg.

"Ah, that’s not... It's not a gift so much as a replacement..." Greg ran his hand over his hair as he stammered.

"And an apology." Sherlock added, as he ducked his head to avoid eye contact.

"We both felt terrible about how that case went down... And that fancy monstrosity Mycroft gave you got ruined." Greg shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

"I still don't know how I missed it. You never should have ended up in the Thames..." Sherlock furrowed his brow and stared off at nothing in particular.

"Especially since we were technically at dinner." Mary giggled. She patted John's cheek as she walked past him to distribute the oddly shaped gifts.

"Never mind all that. It's the most beautiful watch I've ever seen," John looked at Greg with a grin. "And it's full of sentimental value," he turned and smirked at Sherlock. "And I love it. It's the perfect gift. So, thank you both, again."

Greg nodded in acknowledgment. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just do try to be more careful with this one. It's water resistant, _not_ water proof. There _is_ a difference." Everyone heard the subtext. _Do try not to die, John. You're irreplaceable._

"Don't let my mad flatmate get me tossed in the Thames anymore. Got it." John winked. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and huffed, though his eyes glistened with laughter and appreciation.

"All right. Too much talk and not enough ripping up of wrapping paper." Mary laughed as she picked up the large gift bag she'd stowed behind John's chair and then stepped over to stand next to John. With matching smug looks, they both glanced around the room at their friends, Molly tucked comfortably against Greg’s side on the couch, and Sherlock perched on the back of his chair with his feet in the seat.

"Go on, then" John chuckled.

Molly was first to give in to the anticipation. "Uhm... Thanks? But... what's it for?" She crumpled the wrapping into a tidy ball and held up the oversized plastic gun.

John doubled over in laughter at the stunned look on the pathologist's face. "God, Molly. I wish you could see your face."

Mary pulled two more guns from the gift bag and slapped one across John’s chest. He grunted and pretended he'd been dealt a serious blow. "War." Mary cocked an eyebrow at Molly and grinned deviously.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock declared. He stood on the seat of his chair as he ripped away the paper and let it drop to the floor. He jump down, and began rearranging the armchairs to form a blockade.

Molly's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh! How should we do teams? We're odd numbers... Boys versus girls? Draw names?"

"Boys versus girls." Sherlock interjected as he manhandled John into the makeshift fortress he'd just constructed. He stepped out to the middle of the room and drew an imaginary line with his gun. "This is the boundary." He upended the coffee table, sending journals and empty plates scattering. "You," he pointed from Molly to Mary, "can use this as part of your barricade, though I advise you to think bigger scale." Flushed with excitement, Sherlock panted once. "What?"

John and Molly laughed. Mary stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "I'm so happy you like it, love."

"Wait..." Thoroughly confused, Greg finally pulled the wrapping off his gun and held it up in front of him. "What is happening right now?"

"War!" Came the excited chorus.

"You're serious?" Greg stared up at Sherlock in disbelief.

"War is very serious, Graham." Sherlock's tone was solemn, but his mouth quirked upward into a smile. Greg scoffed, and stood from the couch. Molly immediately set to work pulling the couch out from the wall.

"We don't even have any ammunition." Greg pulled the trigger of his gun to demonstrate.

"Don't we?" Mary pulled large bags of foam darts from the gift bag, one for each of them, and tossed the empty gift bag behind her into the kitchen.

"I still don't get it." Greg shrugged as Sherlock shoved him to their fortress.

"What's to get? We shoot them, they shoot us. It's fun." John was knelt on the floor loading his gun with darts.

"Really, John?" Greg finally laughed as dropped to his knees and began preparing his own weapon. "So... how do you win?"

John and Sherlock exchanged a look. "Last man standing." John propped his gun on his shoulder and stood up. "You ready, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective smacked the palm of his hand with the barrel of his gun and nodded. Greg stood, and the three surveyed the enemy fortress.

Mary and Molly had tipped the couch forward so the back of the couch was now an overhang. They'd used the cushions to extend the length of coverage offered by the coffee table.

"Smart. They're very good." Sherlock whispered. Greg nodded and John hummed in agreement.

Mary and Molly stood up from their bunker, shoulder to shoulder. "Ground rules. Head or chest shot means instant death. Anything else, keep playing." Mary had adopted a very commanding voice.

"The fight stays in the sitting room." Captain Watson ordered.

"No prisoners?" Mary readied her weapon. Molly followed suit.

"No prisoners!" Sherlock and John shouted in unison.

"Team names?" John glanced at his teammates. Sherlock shrugged and Greg stared blankly. "C'mon guys, think."

"We call _Rebel Alliance_!" Squeaked Molly. Mary grinned and hip checked her. They both giggled.

Greg narrowed his eyes at his wife. "Fine. We're the _Marauders._ " John clapped him on the shoulder and Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Pop culture references. Don't worry about it." Greg laughed.

"H-how do we get started? Coin toss?" Molly looked from John to Mary.

"Easy." John shrugged, leveled his weapon, fired a shot that just barely missed Molly's head, and then dropped to the ground.

"John fired first!" Greg shouted gleefully as he dropped down beside John.

"Incoming!" Sherlock cried as he knelt on the seat of John's chair and peered over the back. A volley of foam darts rained down on them.

The guys all shot back. The back and forth gunfire lasted several minutes. Eventually, each team attempted several advances and attacks. They proved too evenly matched.

"Okay, okay... Save your ammo." John crouched down. Greg and Sherlock joined him. "Their cover is too good. We're wasting darts trying to hit them. We've  got to do something about that front barrier."

"What do you propose, Captain?" John and Greg snickered, but Sherlock was completely serious.

"We attack the cushions. Start with the one farthest from the coffee table, it's the least stable. The one nearest the breakfast table. If we take the cushions down, they'll be exposed on their side, and we can flank them using breakfast table as cover." John used foam darts to diagram his plan.

"Brilliant." Greg nodded and looked up. He caught sight of Mary crawling out of her barricade and toward the boundary. "The enemy's advancing!"

They opened fire but she had managed to retreat having only been grazed non-fatally in the cross fire.

When the girls paused to reload, John gave the signal, and all three took aim at their intended target. Before any return fire was launched, they'd managed to take out three cushions.

"We've got our opening. Now, we need someone to get over there. Under the table, using the chairs as cover would be best. The other two will provide cover fire." John sat back on his heels.

"Captain," Greg smirked, "it would be my great privilege to undertake this mission."  He shouldered his weapon.

"Gavin, wait." Sherlock placed his hand on Greg's bicep. John and Greg giggled. "I should go. You've got a family now."

"And she's the one trying to kill us!" Greg swept his arm broadly at the other side of the room.

"It's not going to be just the two of you much longer now is it?" Sherlock snorted.

Greg's eyes went wide and then he buried his face in his hands.

"What." John stage whispered. "Greg, is Molly pregnant?"

He nodded and groaned, but kept his face covered. "It's  supposed to be a surprise. She wants one of those big reveal things." Greg finally looked up, but he couldn't conceal his joy. "I'm going to be a dad!"

"Oh my God! Greg!" John threw himself at Greg in a tight embrace.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, though his smile was back.

"Come here, you git." Greg hugged Sherlock.

While Greg was occupied, John shouted "time out!" And jumped to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Greg tugged on John’s pant leg.

"Idiot!" Hissed Sherlock.

"This better be good, Watson." Mary growled from within the fortress.

"Before we decimate you, I just wanted to tell Molly _congratulations_!"

"Wha..." Mary looked from John to Molly.

With a giggle, Molly feigned frustration. " _Greg!_ "

"I _told_ you they'd find out. It's _Sherlock_ we're talking about!" Greg yelled from within their fort.

"Wait. Are you..." Mary squealed in excitement. "You're pregnant?" Molly clasped her hands in front of her, blushed and then grinned. "Oh! Oh my God!" The two women hugged and squealed some more.

"If you're quite through, we've a war to win." Sherlock stood and waved his gun impatiently.

"Yes, okay, Sherlock." Mary laughed as she and Molly, still giggling, crawled back into their fortress. "Carry on!" She fired several rounds at the consulting detective as he and John dropped to the floor.

"Was that little interlude absolutely necessary, John? You could've been killed!" Sherlock hissed as he shot several rounds at the Rebel fortress.

John cocked an eyebrow and smiled his most devious smile. "Now they're distracted."

Greg fired off a few rounds and dropped down next to John. "Brilliant!" He laughed.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Very well then." He crawled over to the end of their chair fort and inspected the distance between his current position and the breakfast table. "The first chair at the table will be an obstacle, but I can make it. John, you are our best shot, when I'm in position, fire into their barricade."

"Right. And Greg will be the cover fire. You take advantage of the chaos." John nodded and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Godspeed." Sherlock exhaled with grim  determination and crawled on his belly toward the table. Mary and Molly had been showering them with a continuous  volley of darts. John and Greg fired back.

It was about the time Sherlock reached his attack position that John noticed only Molly was firing on them. "Mary's taking too long to reload," he whispered to Greg, who cursed in return. "Abort! Abort! Sherlock, get out of there!" John shouted just as Mary took aim from around the decimated cushion wall. Sherlock scrambled backwards frantically, managing to get off a few rounds.

"Nice try, boys! But we've got the advantage!" Mary shouted as she sprayed Sherlock's position with foam darts.

"Sherlock!" John roared as he and Greg rained darts down on Mary's general position. Sherlock made it away from the table, and John dragged him back into the safety of their fort. "Are you hit? Sherlock, are you hit?"

Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath. "Hit in the shoulder and the arse. Nothing fatal." Greg exhaled deeply in relief. John sat back on his heels and scrubbed his hand over his face. He glanced around their fort and cursed.

Glancing up at the mirror hanging over the mantle, John cursed again and turned away from it quickly. "They can see everything we're doing," John hissed. He fired several rounds into the Rebel barricade and ducked down. Greg and Sherlock showered their opponents with darts and dropped down next to John.

"We're not making any progress, and they know our every step." Whispering, John pulled the watch from his pocket and checked the time. "It's just before midnight now. I think we can manage a cease fire by Christmas... But it's going to take a sacrifice."

"John. No." Sherlock shook his head emphatically.

"I can't see another way." John shook his head.

"What are you two on about?" Greg hissed.

"The last resort." John patted his pocket.

"Do I want to know?" Greg furrowed his brow.

"Can't show you now..." John tilted his head back toward the mirror. "But I do need your help." He leaned in and whispered in Greg's ear. Eyes wide, Greg covered his mouth to muffle his laugh.

"Oh God. Okay." Greg snickered and looked from John to Sherlock. "Idiots. Especially you." He elbowed John in the ribs.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "I concur."

"All right. Let's do this. Get in your places." John nodded once, gripped his gun to his chest, and crawled to the edge of their fort  nearest the kitchen. Sherlock knelt in John's chair, ready to attack over the backrest. Greg crouched low in Sherlock's chair. John counted down from three with his fingers and then  shouted, "Parley! I invoke the right of parley!"

"What? What are you idiots playing at?" Mary called back.

John nodded, and Greg stood up on the seat of Sherlock's chair. "Captain John H. Watson, commander of the Marauders, requests a parley with Miss Mary Morstan of the Rebel Alliance."

Mary and Molly both stood, guns gripped to their chests, and stared at Greg warily.

"Laws of piracy hardly apply in this situation." Mary shouldered her weapon. John stood then, and stepped around the front of their fort with his hands up in surrender. Sherlock stood on the seat of John's chair.

"My flat, my rules." Sherlock condescended. "I'll allow it."

Mary nodded slowly, eyes narrowed, as she stepped forward to the center of the room. She glanced over her shoulder at Molly, and nodded slightly. Molly shifted her position, gun ready in order to defend their fort.

John slowly approached Mary, his hands still raised in surrender. 

"Captain Watson." Mary nodded tersely. She sat her gun at her feet.

"Miss Morstan." John nodded once in return. "I called for this meeting in hopes that we might arrange a cease fire for Christmas."

"Are you losers forfeiting? I have to admit, I'm disappointed, but not surprised at all." Mary smirked.

"No, not a forfeiture. I... I'm proposing an... accord. A coalition." John smiled rakishly.

"A league?" Mary cocked an eyebrow at him.

"A partnership."

"A treaty?"

"An _engagement_." 

"An... an enga..."

John dropped to one knee and fished the white gold band with the princess cut diamond from his pocket. "A union. A confederation... Communion... Friendship... Kinship... Marriage."

"John?" Mary gasped. Molly clapped her hand over her mouth and Greg laughed outright.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and attempted to conceal a knowing smile.

"Mary... would you do me the great honor of entering into this mad collaboration? It's going to be anything but normal. And there's a lot of baggage, but..."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Shut up." Mary's eyes crinkled and her smile was positively luminous. "Yes. Yes, you lunatic, of course I'll accept the terms of an alliance." 

A great deal more giddy squealing was emitted from the Rebel base.

Exhaling a shuddering breath, John looked up at Mary with a grin. He slipped the ring on her finger, and Mary pulled her hand free to cup his jaw. She leaned down to kiss him tenderly.

John shifted, and with a hand on Mary's waist, attempted to lean back and pull Mary with him.

Mary giggled into the kiss, slid her hand from his jaw to his nape, and tugged him forward.

Humming in sudden understanding, John pressed into the kiss more deeply and sat back on his heels, forcing Mary to shuffle forward a few steps.

"Oi! Get a room, you two!" Laughed Greg, even as he shifted his weapon.

Mary grinned as she broke the kiss. "Very clever, Captain. It seems you've lured me across enemy lines." Without breaking eye contact, in a swift, smooth motion, Mary snatched up her dart gun and held it near John’s head. "It's really too bad you left your gun behind."

"Worth it." John smirked. 

Mary smiled sweetly as she pulled the trigger. John crumpled into a heap as the foam dart impacted.

"John!" Sherlock stepped hard against the back of John's chair, causing it to tip over.

"Treachery!" Cried Greg. Acting just a moment more quickly than Sherlock, Greg jumped over the back of Sherlock’s chair, and fired on Mary, hitting her directly in the center of her chest. She collapsed instantly over John's still form.

With no hesitation, Molly fired an abundance of darts at Greg. He stumbled toward Sherlock dramatically and collapsed at the consulting detective's feet.

Sherlock dropped to his knees by Greg's side and growled, "I _will_ avenge you!" He leveled his weapon at Molly just in time to see her pull the trigger. He collapsed across Greg’s chest.

Molly stood, flushed with excitement, clutching her gun tightly, in the middle of the sitting room and surveyed the carnage around her. She jumped when there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson stepped in.

"Oh... dear. What have you all gotten up to?" Mrs. Hudson giggled.

"We... It was a foam dart war, and," Molly giggled as she turned to look at the barricade she and Mary had constructed. "Oh... we did make a mess, didn't we. But I'm the last one standing, so I think I..." She turned back to find Mrs. Hudson with her own smaller dart gun aimed directly for a kill shot.

"So sorry dear." The elderly lady pulled the trigger and Molly, stunned and grasping her chest, crumpled to the ground.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Mary sat up and pursed her lips. "You were to be on our side! I thought we agreed."

"Well, love, after you came down, John stopped in as well. And _he_ noticed the new earrings my sister gave me. I'm more inclined to be loyal to people who shower me in compliments." Mrs. Hudson shrugged and smiled fondly in John's direction. Sherlock snickered as he sat up and John laughed outright. 

Mary punched John's arm. "God, you conniving git. I knew you were going to be trouble."

"And yet you still said yes." John grinned cheekily as he stood up, dusted himself off, and helped Mary up.

"Oh, you asked her then? How lovely!" Mrs. Hudson gushed as she embraced first John and then Mary.

"Mrs. Hudson knew?" Greg shook his head as he pulled himself up and rotated his shoulders to work out the muscles.

"Of course not. Mrs. Hudson is just very observant." Sherlock stood and offered a hand to Molly. "Speaking of..."

"And I suppose congratulations are in order for you two as well!" Mrs. Hudson hugged a very surprised Greg, and a blushing, giggling Molly.

A few moments were spent as congratulations and hugs were spread all around. 

"Mrs. Hudson, I know it's late, but won't you join us for a little celebration? It is technically Christmas now anyway." John had returned Sherlock's chair to its normal spot and straightened the cushions. "Just a little champagne?"

"Oh, John, of course I will." Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief as she took John's proffered arm and allowed him to lead her to the chair.

"All right. Sherlock and I will get the champagne." John nudged Sherlock to the kitchen. "Maybe the losing team can start the cleanup." He ducked as Mary tossed a pillow at his head.

Grudgingly, Sherlock arranged the champagne flutes they'd borrowed from Mycroft on a tray as John retrieved two bottles from the refrigerator. Sparkling cider for Molly (for obvious reasons) and himself (as he'd opted to abstain), champagne for everyone else. 

"That went... Well." Sherlock kept his voice low. 

John hummed in agreement. "Do you think they bought it?"

"I do believe so," Sherlock nodded as he poured.

"Absolutely," Mary added softly as she entered with a few dirty dishes to be stacked in the sink, and pulled a tin of Mrs. Hudson's Christmas biscuits from the cabinet.

John sighed in relief. "Good. Very good. So..."

"Shall we?" Sherlock picked up the tray and looked from John to Mary. 

"We shall." Mary giggled.

With Sherlock ahead of him, and Mary beside him, John stepped into the newly tidied and straightened sitting room with a hopeful smile. "Happy Christmas, everyone!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. The special. 
> 
> The special.
> 
> Augh. No spoilers for those who haven't seen it yet. But... what are you waiting for??


	28. Christmas Day, 2016: Sherlock & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been three days since an ex-Marine with a vendetta hunted John like prey and killed Mary. John's in hospital, Greg is injured, Sherlock and Harry want to kill each other, and no one is coping.
> 
> Angst. Straight up angst.
> 
> This chapter falls in line directly behind [Chapter 5](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4399382/chapters/11235073) of **CRUCIAL.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [constantly_cold](http://archiveofourown.org/users/constantly_cold/pseuds/constantly_cold), because she's always on the prowl for John whump. And, for reasons beyond my grasp, she continues to say really really nice things about my stories, and recommends them on Tumblr, and... yeah. Thank you my dear. ♡

"This is _your_ fault!" Harry raged, raising herself onto her tiptoes in an effort to make up the disparity in height between herself and the consulting detective. 

"Lower your voice." Sherlock hissed. The fact that he had not grabbed her by the throat and thrown her from the room demonstrated the level of restraint he was exercising.

"Listening to you is the reason we're here right now, isn't it? I don't think I'll be doing that." Harry jabbed Sherlock in the chest with her finger.

With a low growl Sherlock took a step closer into Harry's personal space, forcing her to step back. "The man who did this is in no way connected to myself or my past. He was a military man with a vendetta against John. He blamed John for his life's hardships after being discharged from military servi..."

With a sharp cry, Harry cut Sherlock short when she slapped him across the face. "You're blaming _John?_ How dare you?"

Stunned, Sherlock refused to give Harry the satisfaction of reacting to the stinging in his cheek. He sneered and fixed his iciest glare on her. "Are you actually an idiot, or do you just play one when you're distressed?"

"Excuse you?" Harry hissed, eyes narrowed.

"I was in the process of explaining that the fault lies with the man who shot John, and who killed... _He_ killed Mary." The anger burning in Sherlock's eyes quickly devolved into devastation. "He was clearly demented. This is _his_ fault. If you can't see that, then I stand by my original assessment, that yes, you are an idiot."

Taken aback, Harry clenched her hands into fists. _Oh._ A patented Watson defense mechanism. "You... You pompous, self righteous arse. You..."

"D-do you two... d'you have to?" A voice that was entirely too small, too weak, and too broken rasped from the hospital bed. Sherlock and Harry both gasped and stumbled over each other in an attempt to get to John's side. "Please..." John attempted to sit up, his progress hindered by his heavily bandaged torso, and a firm hand on his right shoulder.

"None of that, mate." Greg eased John back onto his pillows. "Let the dueling idiots come to you, yeah?" He frowned as he realized John was staring at him, confusion clouding his eyes. Or was that deep sorrow? Or just the fever?

"Your arm... Is it..." John furrowed his brow as he tried to remember... Something...

"Broken." Greg nodded. "It happened that..." He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face.

"You fell on the ice." John squinted as he tried to remember. "You... someone was chasing you."

"You saved me then." Greg smiled, though it didn't make it to his eyes.

"But you... He..." John's breathing had been growing steadily more labored. It was a result of the infection that had developed post-surgery. John coughed and groaned in agony as even the act of breathing pulled and strained the wounds littering his entire left side.

"Shhh. Hush now, John." Clara's voice was soft and soothing. She was seated on John's right, near his head, Greg sat beside her. Sherlock and Harry were crowded together on John's left, Harry was nearer his head, but Sherlock had been sure to position himself in John's direct line of sight. 

Clara brushed the sweat dampened hair back from John's forehead, and pressed her cool hand to his fevered brow. "Do you want any ice?" John nodded as he fought to regain his breath. Clara reached for the plastic cup, but Sherlock snatched it out of her reach. Harry scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"John." Just above a whisper, the name was articulated gently, and with deep reverence. It took a moment for John's eyes to find and focus on the source of the voice. The tension eased from his face and the corner of his mouth quirked up into the slightest smile. Sherlock bit back the irrational, purely sentimental, urge to tell John... _What_ exactly? Anything? _Everything._ Apologize, though he knew it to be unnecessary. Plead with him to keep breathing? He tipped a small piece of ice into John's mouth with a plastic spoon and held his peace.

Closing his eyes, John let the ice melt in his mouth as he concentrated on regulating his breathing. It was becoming increasingly difficult to do so. For a host of reasons, not the least of which were the fact that he was a doctor, and that he'd been shot and picked up a post-op infection once before, he recognized that his current state was precarious. It was going to get worse before it got better... _If_ it got better. He knew the odds. He knew his history. He would fight, but he would also be realistic. There were things that needed to be settled.

"John?" Sherlock's tentative utterance drew John from the dark recesses of his thoughts. "More?" Without opening his eyes, John nodded slightly and opened his mouth, trusting Sherlock completely. He accepted and relished the relief of the cool against his parched throat.

"How long?" John managed to rasp.

"Three days since..." Sherlock spoke softly, as if John was the only one in the room with him. He placed another piece of ice in John's mouth. 

"It's Christmas day," Clara whispered.

John forced his eyes open, frowned, and searched the room until he found Greg. "Go home."

"Not a chance, mate. The baby's too young to really care about Christmas, and Molly would kill me if I left you here to fend for yourself with this lot." He glared pointedly first at Sherlock, and then Harry, receiving mutual scoffs and scowls in return. 

John rolled his eyes, or at least he tried to. Everything was a little fuzzy... or maybe that was him. He was just too exhausted to differentiate. He drew in the deepest breath he was capable of. "Mary..." 

He saw Greg blanch and heard the pained noise Sherlock made. "Need to... arrangements..." He turned his gaze to Sherlock. "Please?"

"We'll wait for you, John. Your injuries aren't that severe. The surgeon said you were very lucky, you'll only need some physical therapy, no organ damage at all. Just a few more days, John. We can... There's time... We don't have to..." Sherlock faltered, desperate to avoid the conversation and the implications of what John was asking.

"No, Sherlock..." John attempted to lean up toward his friend, but Harry and Clara both pressed him gently back down to the pillows. "Infection... It's bad." Sherlock shook his head emphatically in denial, but John shushed him. "Yeah... worse b-before it gets... gets better. If..."

Sherlock's mind stuttered to a halt. If. _If?_ What _if._ If. Unacceptable. No _if._ Sherlock blinked rapidly and worked his jaw as if to speak. He needed to reprimand John. Stop that line of thought. Scream at him to shut his fool mouth. _Stop being an idiot, John._ But the words wouldn't come. 

Greg pried the cup of ice from Sherlock's hand before he could crush it to bits. 

"Ish," Harry sobbed. She leaned close to John's face. "Ish, just stop this. Please? You have to... You can't... Just _don't._ "

"S'okay Harry..." John tilted his face so that their foreheads bumped. She shook her head to say _no this will never be okay_ and did nothing to stop the tears falling. "You're good Harry... Deserve good... Take care of C-clara. I like her." The sound Clara made could neither be classified as a sob nor a laugh, it was the sound of sorrow realized. 

Harry closed her eyes and rested her hand over the bandages covering John's heart. "You're going to get well, Ish. You have to. I _need_ you. You're too strong, too brave, too loyal to quit." She lowered her voice to a whisper, "And your overbearing arse of a flatmate won't last a day without you. So just..." Harry drew in a shuddering breath. "Please, Ish..."

"Wildebeest..." John mumbled and he attempted to smile up at her. Harry's giggle was tear-filled and a bit hysterical. She placed a tender kiss on his cheek and stood upright.

John turned his eyes back to Greg. "Greg... Mary..." It was as heart shattering a plead as any of them had ever heard.

"If that's what you want, John. We'll do the arrangements." Greg's voice broke, and drew in a deep, controlled breath. 

With a nod, John reached out his right hand to Greg. "Brother..."

"We happy few." Greg's voice wavered and he cleared his throat quickly. He took John's hand with his one good hand and held on tightly, as if both their lives depended on it. John hummed in appreciation and thanks. There weren't enough words to say everything he needed to say to Greg. He squeezed his hand the best he could, and Greg squeezed back in understanding and reciprocation.

John turned to Sherlock once more. He had been staring at John, watching him owlishly. John swallowed hard and furrowed his brow, initiating an unspoken conversation only they two would, _could,_ ever understand. _Sherlock, stop staring at me like that, it's a bit creepy._

Sherlock's sigh was heavy, his brokenness on display. _Not staring, John. Remembering._

"Sherlock, I..." _There are so many things I need to say._

"John," there was an edge of warning in Sherlock's tone. _Stop this. I'll not have this conversation. You'll not die. I'll not allow it._

"Git." There were tears in John's eyes now, the bright cerulean glassy with fever. _You are a good man, Sherlock Holmes. The best and wisest. My best friend._

"Idiot." Sherlock whispered just loud enough for John to hear. _I need you. Do you understand me? Please don't go. I love you._

John stared at him. _You..._

With a huff, Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Not like_ that, _idiot._

John sighed and relaxed into the pillows. _I know._ "Sherlock..." _I love you too._

Sherlock gingerly took John's bandaged left hand. "Sleep now, John. You need to rest." _I'll be here when you wake._

Huffing out a breathy laugh, John winced in pain and let his eyes fall closed. " _You_ telling _me_ to sleep..." _I will wake up. I promise._

As gently as possible, Sherlock placed John's hand back down on the bed, and turned abruptly. In a few quick, unsteady strides he was standing at the window, his face buried in his hands. The damned tears wouldn't stop. It was all he could do to keep from vocalizing the litany of curses and _john. please, john. john please_ echoing though the halls of his mind palace.

He felt the warm presence to his right long before he acknowledged it. "Greg... He..."

"He's very sick, Sherlock. The grieving is going to make this worse." Greg stared straight ahead to the horizon. "It's going to be long. Difficult. And he needs us to..."

Sherlock groaned. "How... I can't... How could he ask us..." Sherlock turned to face Greg, but kept his eyes averted.

Greg closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "We have to, Sherlock. Mary was one of us, you know? We... Molly and I... We loved her. _You_ loved her. And John..." Greg glanced at John. "He may say the marriage wasn't real, but he loved her, and she him, and I could see them together forever." Sherlock grudgingly nodded in agreement. "And it's because we loved her, because we love John, that we have to do this for him. We have to make sure she's memorialized properly, as the woman we knew and loved," Greg dropped his voice to a whisper, "and that her past, and all the sordid details, are taken care of. Forever."

"My can..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "My _croft_ will help us."

"And he can also make certain John receives the very best care, I would imagine." Greg raised an eyebrow as Sherlock finally made eye contact.

"Already taken care of." Sherlock shrugged. They shared a moment of silence then, in memory of lost love, in solidarity of purpose, in promises of courage despite weakness. They were stirred from their contemplation by a sweet, quiet voice singing. Both Greg and Sherlock turned to take in the scene.

Harry had moved to sit in the chair Greg had vacated, her face buried in Clara's shoulder. Clara had her right arm wrapped protectively around Harry and was gently rocking her, her left hand rested on John's arm and she was rubbing small circles with her thumb over his fevered skin. John's breathing remained labored, but his erratic heart rate had evened out some. With her head resting on top of Harry's she looked up at Sherlock and smiled as she sang on through "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds."

"There's a very high probability that I will fail John... fail _you..._ through... this." Sherlock spoke low, with his chin dropped to his chest. He pressed his left shoulder lightly against Greg's right shoulder.

Greg sniffed and pressed back into Sherlock's shoulder. "When we fail, at least it'll be together, yeah?"

Sherlock hummed in consent. " _Together._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one. I wrote a whole other entry for this chapter. Same essential subject matter, same players (though Matt actually made an appearance in the other). And then I... I just couldn't do it. John's really sick in this story. His immune system is shot, and he could die from the infections ravaging his body (he won't... he doesn't... I swear). The thing is, I've suffered that loss. The senseless, we live in the 21st century, how are people still dying from infections they contract IN the hospital, kind of loss. It's terrible. And when I read over that other version of this chapter, it was too much _me_ , and... I'm just not ready for that. So, I hope you all can forgive me, but you get the "lite" version of this chapter (and it's not really all that "lite," I know). Maybe some day, when I actually have some self confidence, I'll dust that one off, polish it up, and post it. But not today. 
> 
> Dang, sorry. Not fishing for sympathy, I just wanted to explain my absence on this.
> 
>  
> 
> On another note... toward the end of the story, I used "damned tears," rather than "dammed tears" on purpose. Yes, Sherlock would absolutely keep his emotions dammed up, but when they manifest, obviously he would curse them. I just wanted to make sure that was clear.


	29. Christmas Day, 2017: Mycroft & Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing pains come at every stage of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WORST case of writer's block EVER. When you come across the word "imperious," know I was stuck there for two weeks.
> 
> Two. Weeks.

"Was it _entirely_ necessary to send the brute squad to escort me?" Flanked on either side by standard issue military trained goons in official nondescript suits, Sherlock took his time as he sauntered from 221 Baker Street to the black car waiting to receive him. His movements were deliberate and unhurried as he straightened his scarf, smoothed the front of his coat, and leisurely slipped each finger into his leather gloves.

"I couldn't risk you running, now could I?" Striking quite the imposing figure himself, Mycroft stood post just outside the open car door. The disdainful, tight lipped smile plastered on his face elicited a derisive huff from Sherlock.

Looking over his shoulder at the front windows of the flat, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and flashed a sardonic grin up at his flatmate. John, with arms crossed over his chest, smirked and exaggeratedly rolled his eyes as he looked down at the goings on. 

"While it's still Christmas, brother dear?" Mycroft tilted his head slightly, a signal for the younger Holmes to make haste. "We mustn't keep her waiting."

Turning to the muscled suit, whose name he had no need for, on his left, Sherlock motioned to Mycroft. "You wouldn't think it from looking at him, but the most powerful man in the Western world is rather decidedly terrified of disappointing his mummy. It's adorable, really." He sighed when no response was forthcoming; the other man simply stared blankly straight ahead, awaiting his next task. John would have responded -- a cough to cover his laugh, and a warning to _behave_ with absolutely no sincerity behind it.

Sherlock shuddered at the prospect of spending the entire day in the company of his insufferable brother without the moral support of his best friend. He silently cursed John, and his noble convictions that time spent with family was important, as he intentionally jostled Mycroft with his shoulder before ducking into the car. He briefly considered scrambling out the other side and making a dash for it, but knew all too well his efforts would only prolong the inevitable. 

Taking his seat next to Sherlock with practiced ease, Mycroft assumed his most official, all-knowing expression and cleared his throat. "It has been a very long time since you were last with the family on Christmas, Sherlock."

"Sixteen years." Disinterest evident in his tone, Sherlock absently watched the city pass by through the window.

"A considerable amount of residual devastation and hurt is still associated with that particular Christmas..."

"I am well aware, _brother._ Perhaps you could preserve both your dignity and my sanity, and just get on with it." Sherlock turned his head just enough to give Mycroft a wary sidelong glance. "I presume you _do_ have a point?"

"Indeed." Mycroft tapped one gloved finger on his knee in a steady cadence. 

Sherlock frowned. "Expending nervous energy. Highly out of character for someone of your position with your background. The topic of conversation you've settled on is decidedly personal, and as such, you feel out of your element." He turned to face Mycroft more directly. "Perhaps you're prepared to tell me that we're bypassing the dinner altogether, and you've an _errand_ for me that will no doubt end in my untimely demise. I must admit, the prospect is tempting."

"Neither of us could be so fortunate." Mycroft maintained a controlled tone. Sherlock snickered.

"Don't attempt jokes, Mycroft. You never did have a sense of humor."

Mycroft hummed his consent. "Never saw the use of wasting the mental faculties on something so subjective as humor."

"Laughter... has its merits." Sherlock returned his gaze to the world outside the confines of the car.

"Sentiment." Mycroft dismissed the conversation with a flick of his wrist. They rode in silence that was anything but companionable for several moments more. 

"Things have changed." Sherlock murmured. He and Mycroft shared a look. "That's what you were going to tell me. Aunts, uncles, cousins. They've died. Moved on. Grown distant. Due, in part, to my own actions. I'm not to expect today to be like the Christmases when we were children. I'm to be prepared for the fallout. Emotional and otherwise."

Nodding grimly, Mycroft proceeded to enumerate the waning number of survivors and holdouts amongst the aged and widowed grandaunts, and the few cousins who continued to hold onto the meager hopes that their sacrifice of precious time and patience would be rewarded with gifts of cash and heirlooms. 

Sherlock snorted in contempt. "Why do our parents insist on continuing with this burdensome tradition?"

Drawing in a measured breath, Mycroft resumed tapping a constant pulse on his knee. "Brandon attends every year." Eyes wide, Sherlock's head snapped up. "He brings his children, who are now no longer children. They have never missed a year."

"Do they..." Sherlock pressed a gloved knuckle against his lips and furrowed his brow. "This is a bad idea. Does he know I'm coming?"

"He does. He informed mummy he was looking forward to seeing you." Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and sniffed.

"Well, that's..." Sherlock frowned.

"Ghastly?" Mycroft offered. 

"I was going to say _awkward,_ thank you," Sherlock snipped. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned to scowl out the window.

"Ghastly for _you,_ little brother." Waving his hand dismissively, Mycroft rolled his eyes. "It does little more than demonstrate poor judgment on Brandon's part."

Sherlock maintained his scowl. "Even with all of your intelligence and resources, there are still aspects of the human existence -- of _my_ existence -- that are beyond your comprehension."

Mycroft's laugh was hollow and humorless. "Please, _do_ enlighten me, brother. What wisdom have you drawn from your vast reserve of interpersonal relationships? Had an earth shattering epiphany, have you? Perhaps you've gleaned some wealth of knowledge from the good doctor? At the very least, I expect you might be able to quote, with some conviction, some trifling, sentimental nonsense he's assailed you with over the years."

"Mycroft," Sherlock's voice registered a low, rumbling timbre, "you are a man who other men cower before, not because they choose to, but because they have to. They humble themselves because of your authority. They honor your station without respecting you as a man. You have created this imperious caricature of yourself, and that is what you allow the world to see. In turn, you have isolated and locked away the part of you that enjoys life... the part of you that cares about any damned thing outside of yourself and the illusion of order and control you've constructed. You've lived alone so long in that isolation, you've grown bitter and miserable, and you expect others to see the world the way you do. It truly vexes you when someone outgrows your expectations for them."

"That's what you've done, have you? You've outgrown my expectations for you?" Mycroft snarled; his eyes flashed in indignation. "You are an egotistical, misanthropic addict who solves other people's petty puzzles for a living."

"All of those things are true." Sherlock slumped more deeply into his seat. "But," he began pensively, watching his brother with keen eyes, "all of those things might also be said of you."

"A juvenile retort if ever I've heard one. Would you honestly be so bold as to accuse _me_ of being an addict? Have you been using even today, litt..." Mycroft was cut short when, with an exasperated grunt, Sherlock slammed his fist down on the armrest built into the car door.

"How dare you? You _know_ I haven't." Sherlock seethed. "Not... Not since... It's been _years,_ Mycroft. Years." 

Unimpressed by the outburst, Mycroft, chin tilted up, looked down on his brother with a pretentious sneer. "If not drugs, then what?"

It took a concerted effort for Sherlock to reign in his temper and to school his features into something more resigned and far less ferocious. Mycroft was absolutely taken aback as he watched his brother undergo the conscious transformation. "John thinks perhaps it's an addiction to control. For both of us. All of those things you said, they all come from a desire to be the one in charge of every situation. For me, the use of drugs stemmed from the need to control this..." Sherlock motioned to his own head. "It's why you and I can't..." With the same hand, Sherlock motioned between the two of them. "I... I don't think he's wrong."

"John. _John_ thinks we... _I_ am addicted to control? He would do well to concern himself with his own neurosis, and leave the diagnosing of psychosis to those who are qualified to do so." Mycroft condescended. "Good lord, he's got you cowed!"

"He hasn't!" Sherlock forcefully asserted. He dropped his hands into his lap and clenched them into fists. He took a controlled breath and squeezed his eyes shut. "He's my friend. The _best_ friend I've ever had." Sherlock refused to open his eyes. He didn't have to look at Mycroft to know his brother's expression was that of one who had just been struck across the face. " _I_ asked him to help me define this... _Us._ " 

"Why? What could you possibly hope to accomplish with something as superficial as a _label_?" Mycroft huffed, his intonation one of mockery.

"I've grown weary of being the _egotistical, misanthropic addict_ every minute of every day. It can be exhausting. Not to mention lonely."

"It appears you've confused the definition of _growth_ with weakness, little brother." With a patronizing pat on Sherlock's knee (the younger Holmes flinched away with an insolent grunt), Mycroft tsk'd and shook his head. "Was that petty little demonstration in front of your residence also a sign of growth?"

"I never said I'm _above_ being misanthropic, especially when afforded an opportunity to provoke _you._ I'm not interested in changing who I am... I've just come to realize that there are instances when it is not necessary for my personality to be the dominant personality in the room."

Mycroft scoffed at the very notion. "If you do not dominate your environment, your environment will dominate you. You've grown soft, and what have you to show for it? A _friend?_ "

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He wanted to smack the implied air quotes right out of Mycroft. "I don't expect you to understand, _brother._ " He nearly spat the last word. "I accepted your assertion that caring is not an advantage for too many years. Your example was the only example I thought mattered. You are calculating, unencumbered, and unrelenting. Look at where it has gotten you. Power and authority, yes. Privilege? Absolutely. But at the end of the day, you've no one to share it with." Sherlock frowned as he took in his brother's pinched expression. 

"I look at father, who did the same work you do, and mummy, who truly is a proper genius, and I realize they achieved something I had never realized was a possibility. They had the work, _and_ they are happy with who they are outside of that work." Lifting both hands palm up, Sherlock shook his head. "I... I think you're wrong, Mycroft. I think we both got it wrong. I think there is something to this caring."

With a sneer, Mycroft barked an appalled laugh. "Mummy abandoned academia to procreate, and never truly fulfilled her full potential. I succeeded father in his position, doing so nearly ten years sooner than he was able to, and have attained greater status than he ever could have. I am not the one who _got it wrong,_ dear brother."

"I..." Sherlock furrowed his brows and shook his head. Mycroft flushed with chagrin as he read the pity in his baby brother's eyes. "You're wrong, My." Sherlock barely managed a whisper.

"I believe you were correct in your assessment, _William._ " Sherlock was stunned by the venom in Mycroft's tone as he brandished his childhood moniker. "This was a mistake. As we are nearly at our destination, you will make your appearance, greet the grandaunts, and the car will then return you home straightaway. No need for your insolence to ruin the festivities for everyone else. Now, if you think you can manage, I've some business to see to before we arrive." Mycroft retrieved his mobile from his pocket and turned his full attention to his incoming messages.

"My..." 

Raising his hand to shush his brother, Mycroft made no other indication that he even acknowledged Sherlock's presence. Sherlock turned and pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Just as he was ready to tell Mycroft he'd rather not even see anyone, the familiar buzz of the mobile vibrating in his pocket pulled him from his morose contemplation.

_How's it going? JW_

_Still in the car and Mycroft is ready to kill me. SH_

_Mycroft's an arse. JW_

_Astute, though not actually helpful. SH_

_You must be near. Ignore him, and scandalize your aunts with the story about that case last week when you get there. JW_

_He's planning on sending me home the moment we arrive. SH_

_And that case wasn't scandalous. SH_

_As if your mother would let him send you away after missing Christmas for what, 15 years? JW_

_16\. SH_

_Right. And you're not an 87 year old woman. That case was absolutely scandalous. Trust me. JW_

_Mycroft is giving me the evil eye because I laughed. You should expect to be kidnapped in the very near future. SH_

_Mycroft can sod right off. JW_

_Damn. Harry's here. You going to be okay? JW_

_I've survived Mycroft this long. I'm more concerned for your well being. SH_

_Me too. Git. JW_

Sherlock's mouth quirked up into a tiny smile as he dropped his mobile into his pocket. He glanced out the window and his stomach dropped as he recognized the street they were on. 

"Remember, brother. Say your hellos, and then your commitment will have been fulfilled," Mycroft condescended. He slid his mobile into an inner pocket, and smoothed the front of his coat. The car rolled to a stop, and both brothers drew in a deep breath. Mycroft sat, shoulders squared, waiting for one of his men to open his door. Sherlock scrunched up his face in impatience, threw his own door open, and tumbled from the car. "Sherlock!" Mycroft called after him, an edge of panic in his voice.

With a purposeful stride, Sherlock cut across the lawn and straight up to the front door. Mycroft scrambled after him, and had just managed to grab Sherlock's arm in an effort to spin him away from ringing the bell when the door was thrown open.

"Sherlock!" Mummy wrapped her arms around her youngest son and laugh-cried into the front of his coat. "Oh, you came. My sweet boy, you came."

Returning the embrace, Sherlock cleared his throat. "I... Uhm... I believe I owe you and father an apology..."

"None of that." Mummy leaned back and swatted his arm. "We've been through this. We all made mistakes. But it's Christmas and you're here." She grinned up at him, and he ducked down so she could kiss his cheek. Mummy leaned around to look behind him.

"Mummy..." Mycroft took a step nearer, his most diplomatic smile plastered on.

"Oh. Is John not with you?" Mummy pursed her lips into a pout.

"What?" Mycroft spluttered.

"Not today, I'm afraid. He's spending the holiday with his sister. Though he sends his regards." Sherlock pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to his mother.

"Oh, what a dear. We'll miss him, won't we?" Mummy patted Sherlock's arm again and broke their embrace. "Don't let me forget to send a few jars of your father's jam for him. I know how much he enjoys it. And I've a jar of honey from that market you like so well." Sherlock offered his arm, and Mummy wrapped her hand around the crook of his elbow.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft blustered. "Would someone please explain..."

"Sherlock, you're here!" Father rushed to the door.

"Father." Sherlock stuck his hand out. His father accepted the handshake, and then pulled his youngest son through the door and into a tight embrace. Sherlock chuckled. "I'm happy to see you too, Father. John sends his regards."

"Ah, he's not with you then?" Father released Sherlock from the embrace and huffed in disappointment. "I got a new hunting rifle, and was hoping to show it to him."

"Perhaps he can give you a demonstration on how to use it _properly_ when we come for lunch in two weeks? I believe he would be amenable." Sherlock pulled his mobile out and sent a quick text. The response was immediate. "Yes, he says he is looking forward to it." 

"Splendid!" Father clapped Sherlock on the back and then helped him out of his coat.

"Excuse. Me." Mycroft punctuated his frustration with a sharp stomp of his foot. Wide eyed with surprise Mummy and Father turned their attention to their oldest son. Sherlock smirked smugly.

"Oh, Myc!" Mummy brushed some invisible lint from the front of his coat and patted his shoulder. "Close the door, would you love?" She turned quickly and bustled away. "Come, come. There's tea on, and mulled wine. Everyone's in the sitting room. I've got to get the finishing touches on lunch. Won't be long!" She squeezed Sherlock into another tight embrace and then disappeared into the kitchen.

"Maybe I should..." Sherlock took a step toward the kitchen.

"Nonsense! Let's get you settled with some tea. Get you warmed up, and then I'll help your mother finish up." Father placed his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and shepherded him to the sitting room. Mycroft was left, mouth agape, arms slack, standing in the entry. If he slammed the door a little too firmly, no one seemed to pay him any mind. He grumbled as he hung up his coat. On the wrong hook. As Father had hung Sherlock's coat on his usual one.

Mycroft reached the sitting room just in time to see Brandon gasp at the sight of Sherlock. He carefully set his drink down, turned and stared. Mycroft had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Finally. _Finally_ someone was going to confront Sherlock for his ill behavior. It would be deserved, and Mycroft relished the very thought of it.

Petty, yes. But after what had just transpired with their parents, Mycroft's confidence had been shaken, and eleven year old Mycroft threatened to make another appearance.

"Brandon," Timid, Sherlock nodded once.

"Sherlock. You came." Brandon took a step toward Sherlock. Mycroft prepared himself to separate them, once Brandon got a few good blows in. "How... How've you been?"

"Good... Good. You?" Sherlock... smiled?

"Very well, actually." Brandon stuck his hand out, and the two men shook hands. "God, it's been too long, mate. It's been what..."

Sherlock hummed as he thought back. "Three months, I think. I was helping Gemma prepare for that interview. Did she get the job?"

Brandon laughed. "She did, following in her mother's footsteps." Brandon put a hand up. "Just a moment." He stepped into the study and announced Sherlock's arrival. A general cheer arose and Brandon's grown children clambered into the room.

"Sherlock, _what_ is the meaning of this?" Mycroft hissed. Before Sherlock could answer there was an excited squeal from the doorway and a flash of pink jumper and brunette curls hurled through the room and crashed into Sherlock’s chest.

“Gemma.” Sherlock chuckled fondly as he wrapped Brandon’s eldest daughter, twenty-five year old Gemma, in an embrace. “How are you?”

“I’m wonderful. Everything is wonderful!” Gemma pushed away from Sherlock and brushed a clump of stray hair behind her ear. She blushed and flashed a brilliant smile. Sherlock was in awe of how, at twenty-five, she so very much resembled her mother. "I... I have someone I want you to meet..." Stepping back from Sherlock, Gemma turned back to the doorway, grabbed a rather nervous looking young man by the arm and dragged into the sitting room. "Sherlock, this is Nicholas. My _fiance._ "

The younger man paled considerably. "Oh... Oh G-god. Gem, you didn't tell me... _Sherlock Holmes?_ " Gemma elbowed Nicholas in the ribs. "It... It's a pleasure, Mr. Holmes." Nicholas thrust a shaking hand out. 

With a chuckle Sherlock shook his hand quickly. "Sherlock, please." Sherlock released the clammy hand, but not before two fingers found the other man's pulse point. He hummed as he steepled his fingers under his chin. "Your pulse is elevated, and you're sweating. Interesting." In a few quick steps he had walked a complete circle around Nicholas, calculating eyes taking in every minute detail.

"No. No you don't," Gemma laughed and stepped in front of Nicholas. "You'll not scare this one away." Nicholas tried to laugh, but it came out too loud and forced.

"I'm only looking out for your best interest, you know this." Sherlock winked.

" _Sher_ lock! Daddy, please. Make him stop!" Gemma clasped her hands together, turned to Brandon and pretended to beg through her giggles.

"Of course, darling. Take Nick to get some water. The poor boy looks like he's about to faint." Brandon patted his daughter's shoulder and leaned near to Sherlock. He stage whispered, "We'll talk about him later, yeah?" Looking very conspiratorial, Sherlock hummed his consent. Gemma giggled again, and then to his immense relief, pulled Nicholas to the kitchen for a glass of water.

With a lopsided grin, Sherlock turned to the next of Brandon's children. "Charlotte." The lanky twenty-one year old with the brightly colored hair and the indifferent attitude pulled her headphones down. Sherlock pointed to her hair. "Purple. I like it. The green didn't suite you nearly so well."

Charlotte rolled her eyes, though she couldn't hide the corners of her mouth quirking into a tiny smile. "Dad hates it." She gave Brandon a sidelong glance, to which he simply shrugged and nodded. "So... Is John here?" She attempted to scan the sitting room discreetly. 

"Good Lord, why is everyone in this family suddenly so obsessed with _your_ flatmate?" Mycroft huffed as he considered a second cup of tea, but opted for calming effects of the mulled wine instead.

It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "No one is obsessed with John..."

"Char is!" eighteen year old David snickered and shoved his sister from behind. 

"Am not!" Charlotte turned on her brother and punched him hard in the arm. He flinched but then just laughed at her.

"I think someone is a little smitten," Brandon laughed.

Sherlock scrunched up his face. "John is old enough to be your father. Surely you must know some young men nearer your own age and level of sexual experience." Mycroft and Brandon both blanched. David doubled over in laughter.

"Oh, God..." Charlotte covered her face and flushed bright red. "I just wanted to _thank_ him for sending me those study resources. I got accepted into the program." Still blushing from embarrassment, she crossed her arms over her chest. "You idiots all know I'm going to be a doctor. _He's_ a doctor. He helped me study. _God._ " Charlotte pulled her headphones back on and with a brazen grin, made a shockingly obscene gesture and retreated to the study. The grandaunts, tittering in the corner of the sitting room gasped in shock and disgust.

Sherlock chuckled at the outburst. He glanced back at Mycroft, who appeared completely mortified. "Brandon, it appears your middle child has done the impossible. I hadn't thought anything would scandalize my brother more than me showing up at Buckingham palace in nothing but a bed sheet. I believe your Charlotte has out-disgraced me."

"You didn't... Is that a true story?" David stepped up closer to Sherlock. He wiped the laughter tears from his eyes with his sleeve. The youngest of Brandon's children was nearly as tall as Sherlock, and over the past several months had finally started growing into his height. No longer awkward and spindly, he looked truly athletic.

"True story!" Sherlock held up his hand as if he were taking an oath.

"Do _not_ encourage him." Mycroft grumbled as he filled his wine glass a second time.

"Even stole an ashtray because John was too _afraid_ to do it himself." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and waited for Mycroft to respond. He wasn't disappointed. 

Choking on his drink, Mycroft slammed his glass down on the side table. "You did _what_?"

"Bloody brilliant!" David laughed and clapped his hands together. Brandon shook his head in disbelief, and tried to cover his laugh with a cough.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's bicep and attempted to spin him around. "I think we need to talk, _brother._ And didn't you have some pressing matter you needed to see to?"

Sherlock simply planted his feet and wrenched his arm free. "I've not finished my hellos yet, Mycroft." He turned his attention back to David and tilted his head back toward his brother with a smug look on his face. "It's the only ashtray we have at the flat. Mycroft's used it twice." There was no concealing the laughter this time. Mycroft refilled his drink and stormed from the room. 

"It's so easy to wind him up." Sherlock shrugged. "I don't actually have to try any more."

David coughed as he tried to recover from laughing so hard. "Older siblings, yeah? _God._ " He sniffed and chuckled. Sherlock hummed in agreement. Once he had his breathing back under control, David took a deep breath. "So. I..." He looked at Brandon, who nodded his encouragement, and then turned back to Sherlock. "Can I ask you a favor?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the boy. "Well now, that depends. What sort of favor?"

"I'm thinking of going into law enforcement. We have to write an essay about it. All that _what I want to be when I grow up, and why_ nonsense, and do a presentation and everything. And I was just wondering..."

"I would be delighted to have you along at a crime scene." Sherlock's eyes flashed with excitement. "Wonderful, David. The MET could use someone with some actual intelligence. And I will introduce you to Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's the only one with any sense. We can even show you some cold case files. John's got loads of case notes. Oh!" Sherlock had started pacing the room excitedly. "And I can teach you observation skills. Yes. Yes, this will be quite the worthy endeavor." He stopped in front of David, who had been following his every movement with rapt attention. "When would you like to start?"

David shrugged. "I don't know? Soon, I guess." 

"Excellent. Brandon, with your permission, I'd like to take David along the next time John and I attend a crime scene." Sherlock was nearly vibrating with excitement. 

"Of course... He won't be in any danger, though?" 

"Usually not, no. But just in case, John always has his gu..." Sherlock bit down on his lip. His eyes darted between David and Brandon. "Don't repeat that to anyone. It's his old service weapon, and he's not suppose to have it."

"Oh my God. Your life is the best." David's eyes were wide with wonder. "This is... My presentation is going to kick so much arse!" The grandaunts gasped, scandalized once more.

"I wouldn't say it's been the _best_ by any means," Sherlock and Brandon shared a meaningful, sorrow-filled look, "but there are parts that have definitely been better than what most people will ever have." 

Father stepped into the sitting room then. "Lunch is ready everyone." He glanced around the room and frowned. "Sherlock, where's Mycroft?"

"I assumed he had gone to tell Mummy I was behaving poorly."

"Well, he's not in the kitchen," Father chuckled. 

Sherlock sighed. "I think I have an idea where he may be. This could take a while. We... had a bit of a disagreement on the way here."

"Would you like for us to wait for you?"

"No, go eat. You know how he can be." 

With a shake of his head, Father patted Sherlock's arm. "I know how _you_ can be too." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded. 

Having made up his mind, Sherlock stopped to gather a few items from the kitchen, and made his way upstairs and to his old bedroom.

"You could have at least knocked. I could have been working on something classified." Mycroft snipped. He was sitting on the bed, leaning up against the headboard, and didn't look up from the empty glass in his hand.

"This _is_ my old room." Sherlock condescended.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Mycroft huffed impatiently.

"Lunch is ready."

"What, no witty commentary about my weight?"

"For godssake, Mycroft. We're not children." Sherlock stomped over to the bedside table and unloaded his arms. He reached behind the headboard and plugged in the fairy lights that Leah had hung so many years ago. A few had burned out, but most still worked. 

" _What_ are you doing?" Mycroft finally looked up at him, brow furrowed in disdain.

In lieu of an answer, Sherlock switched off the lamp, toed off his shoes, and placed Mycroft's empty glass on the table. "Budge over." Mycroft glared up at him, and they stayed frozen in a bizarre staring competition for several moments. With a disgusted sigh, Mycroft scooted over marginally. Sherlock nodded and sat next to him on the bed.

"I don't suppose you'd be inclined to share the reason for this intrusion, now that you've made yourself comfortable?" 

"Again... My room." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're emotional, so I'll forgive the dull repetition just this once."

"I'm not." Embarrassment flushed across Mycroft's face as he heard his own petulance.

Sherlock hummed in contemplation. "And I'm not _an egotistical, misanthropic addict who solves other people's petty puzzles for a living_ either."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mycroft sighed. “William...”

“ _Sherlock._ ”

Mycroft sighed once more. “ _Sherlock,_ what is it you want from me? Why did you agree to come here, like this? It’s obvious that you have been in contact with our family, and made amends on your own. It is also obvious that you took every precaution to make certain I was unaware of said contact.”

“For reasons quite beyond my own understanding, though John assures me are most natural and to be expected, your opinion of me matters. I wanted to show you that I had grown... Without you having to force me into action.” Sherlock shrugged and looked down at his hands. “Pure and utter sentimental nonsense, I know. And it hasn’t always mattered. But after all the years of struggle, of pain, and loss...” Sherlock screwed up his face and fixed Mycroft with a sidelong glance. “I’ve come to realize how important...”

“Do you realize,” Mycroft’s interruption was abrupt and callous, his voice icy and unexpectedly gruff, “that Christmas day sixteen years ago you stole away the one person who was most important to me?” He heaved a deep breath, a tiny chink in the frigid armor. In an instant he had collected himself, shield raised, on guard.

“I... I do. I know.” Sherlock mumbled. He covered his eyes with one hand and slumped back against the headboard. “I’ve played it on an endless loop for years. If I hadn’t... If I weren’t _me,_ you wouldn’t have come after me, and Leah would still... My, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do.”

Handing Sherlock the handkerchief from his pocket, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Leah. Yes, she... She and I were close. Very close. She was very important to me.” He let his hand rest on Sherlock’s forearm, causing the younger man to flinch in surprise. “But she was never the _most_ important.”

Mycroft let his hand fall to his lap, and he shifted uncomfortably. “That day you declared that we, Mummy, Father, _me,_ had nothing left to offer you, and that you’d rather take your chances out in the world. And then you left. You _left,_ Sherlock. And then when Leah... You got yourself hauled off, and you were gone. You never looked back, and you never came home. You abandoned m... _us._ If it weren’t for Mummy and Father insisting I insinuate myself into your life, I know how probable it is that we would have never seen you again.”

He sniffed and balled his hands into fists, uncharacteristically wearing his tension visibly for the world to see. “And then you waltz in here, and it turns out you’ve gone to great lengths to make amends. With everyone... Everyone but... It was made abundantly clear today that ours is a relationship beyond repair.”

“My...”

“Sherlock, please. Just go.”

They sat in the heavy silence of too much history gone too very wrong for far too long for what felt like hours. In truth, it was a mere matter of moments, but heartache and broken bonds are no respecters of time. 

Eventually Sherlock shuffled a little in his spot. Mycroft watched warily in his peripheral vision as his brother unwrapped a small something bundled in a festive tea towel. A scent of spice wafted from the bundle. Gingerbread. He placed the cheerfully iced biscuits on the bed between them and reached for a thermos and a mug.

“Sherlock.” 

“I know. We’re not children. This is not a blanket fort.” Sherlock passed the mug to Mycroft and filled a second. “The cocoa is spiked.” The corner of his mouth ticked upward briefly. Mycroft huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “I know. This doesn’t fix anything. I _know._ I know. But I _don’t_ know what to do...”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m trying to be better. To grow up. To show _you_ that...” Sherlock took a long sip of his cocoa. He stared down into his mug. “I’ve missed you, My.”

Mycroft blinked in surprise and gulped down the last of his cocoa. “Quite right, and you I as well have... Ah, uhmm...” Mycroft’s eye’s reflected the horror of his stuttering, and he snatched the thermos from Sherlock to pour himself a second mug.

“The British government, ladies and gentlemen. As succinct and elegant as ever.” Sherlock chuckled and bit into a gingerbread man.

“I suppose this means you expect me to...”

“What if we just remember that we’re brothers... On occasion? No other expectations.” Sherlock looked over at Mycroft and smirked. “Though, not planting any more cameras and recording devices around my home would actually be very accommodating of you.”

Humming his acknowledgment, Mycroft inspected a biscuit. “You assume that you will one day find the last of my hidden tech. No additional devices will be added, but I will continue with what I have, and will rest assured that you will always be safely under observation.”

Sherlock grunted. “Very well.” His mobile vibrated then, and he looked to Mycroft with his brow furrowed. Granting his permission with the wave of his hand, Mycroft saw to the business of the gingerbread man he had picked up.

_shlerok. hi. JW_

Sherlock sighed, and with a roll of his eyes showed the message to Mycroft.

“Drunk or injured?” Mycroft asked around a bite of biscuit.

“Since it’s only mid-afternoon, and Harry has actually been sober for months now, I’d say injured. But the greater likelihood is injured and self-medicated.” Sherlock explained as he tapped out a reply. Mycroft actually chuckled.

_Injured or drunk? SH_

_u tell me. JW_

_How very mature of you. SH_

_Based solely on your grammar, I’d say drunk because you’re injured. SH_

_gotit in 1. JW_

_Why are you injured, John? SH_

_looon story. good oen tho. JW_

_just a srpain is fine. im fine. JW_

_Should I come home? SH_

_nahhh. juss gonna fix some dinner. im fine. JW_

_Do NOT cook anything. Elevate your injured whatever. I’ll be home soon. SH_

_John. SH_

_JOHN. Do you understand me? Under no circumstances are you to cook. SH_

_fine. bosssy. :-( JW_

“Yes, I can absolutely see the benefit of investing the time and effort into maintaining a friendship. Not dull, inconvenient or taxing at all.” Mycroft condescended, though he was smiling as he did so.

_Mycroft sends his regards. SH_

_mycfroot cn bugger rt off. JW_

Sherlock doubled over in laughter. “Mycfroot. Oh God. You are both never going to hear the end of that one. Myc _froot._ ”

“And yet he can spell _bugger._ Fascinating.” 

“Oh, John is very proficient in the art of the profane.” Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself, but couldn’t help another chuckle.

“Ah, yes. I am _very_ well aware.” Mycroft stood from the bed and smoothed the wrinkles from his trousers and jacket. “So, shall we fix the good doctor a plate, and send you on your way? Before he manages to burn your home to the ground?” 

“Yes, I rather think so.” Sherlock unplugged the fairy lights and gathered the dishes from the bedside table. He stepped to the door, but stopped and turned back to face his brother. “Thank you.” He ducked his head. “And, happy Christmas, My.”

“Happy Christmas to you as well, little brother.”


	30. Christmas Day, 2017: Harry & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say you can never go home. Maybe they're right.
> 
> And the mystery of John's "drunk texts" to Sherlock is solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [Dodoa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dodoa/pseuds/Dodoa) because I promised I wouldn't make you wait until Easter for more chapters, and here it is suddenly May.
> 
>  
> 
> ******  
> I was working, quite diligently actually, on the next installment of my [Reversal](http://archiveofourown.org/series/428896) series over the weekend, but I just kept thinking about this version of the boys. I really just needed to get this written down. This chapter isn't the end, though we are winding down. I'm actually hoping to finish this soon. Especially since I already have an idea for next Christmas (and I'm freaking excited for it!).

_How's it going? JW_

_Still in the car and Mycroft is ready to kill me. SH_

_Mycroft's an arse. JW_

_Astute, though not actually helpful. SH_

_You must be near. Ignore him, and scandalize your aunts with the story about that case last week when you get there. JW_

_He's planning on sending me home the moment we arrive. SH_

_And that case wasn't scandalous. SH_

_As if your mother would let him send you away after missing Christmas for what, 15 years? JW_

_16\. SH_

_Right. And you're not an 87 year old woman. That case was absolutely scandalous. Trust me. JW_

_Mycroft is giving me the evil eye because I laughed. You should expect to be kidnapped in the very near future. SH_

_Mycroft can sod right off. JW_

A car horn blared from the street below, and John peered out the window. Harry stepped out of the cab and wiggled the fingers of one hand up at him. He held his index finger to say _one minute_ ; Harry nodded and got back into the car.

_Damn. Harry's here. You going to be okay? JW_

_I've survived Mycroft this long. I'm more concerned for your well being. SH_

_Me too. Git. JW_

Sherlock didn't know the half of it. John had taken excruciating care to _make certain_ his flatmate didn't know the half of it. If he had, he'd have insisted on tagging along. He could actually hear Sherlock's persistent _data, John._ Then Mycroft probably would have... And Greg... God. No. It really was best Sherlock didn't know.

With a chuckle and a shake of his head, John shoved his mobile into his pocket, put on his coat, and settled a worn rucksack over his shoulder. 

He had waited until Sherlock left to gather his _supplies,_ because he just hadn't been prepared to deal with the questions. And the scrutinizing, laser focused, wordless assessment. He'd let Sherlock deduce away later, when there would actually be something worth finding out.

"John, dear." Mrs. Hudson met him at the bottom of the steps. She was holding a well familiar biscuit tin in her hands. "Sherlock told me you were spending the day with Harry today. I know it hasn't been easy for the two of you. I thought these might help." She lifted the lid to reveal a lovely assortment of sweets.

"Mrs. Hudson, why do you spoil us so?" John grinned and kissed his landlady's cheek. "Honestly, we'd never survive without you."

"Flatterer." Mrs. Hudson giggled and patted John's cheek.

"You aren't staying here alone today, are you?" John glanced at the front door and then back to Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, no dear. I'll be going over to Mrs. Turner's in a bit." She handed John the tin and patted his hand. "Don't you worry about me. You go on now, don't keep your sister waiting."

"If you're sure you'll..."

"John Watson, you walk out that front door this moment!" Mrs. Hudson playfully scolded and swatted his arm.

"Yes ma'am." He placed another quick kiss on her cheek. "I'll be back this afternoon. I've got my mobile if you need anything, yeah?"

"Go!" Mrs. Hudson laughed and shoved John to the door. When John reached for the doorknob, she stilled his hand with a light touch on his forearm. "Don't let the ghosts of Christmas past get in your way today, love. Enjoy your time together. You _both_ need this."

John nodded, though he didn't meet her gaze. "You're as bad as _him,_ " he jerked his head back to indicate the flat at the top of the stairs, "but you already know that, don't you?" 

Mrs. Hudson smiled innocently and opened the door for John. He strode out to the waiting cab, and then squinting against the sun, smiled back at her. "And John dear, do try to stay out of trouble. I know how you and Sherlock do when you're away from each other." John laughed in response and climbed into the cab.

"You're in a good mood." Harry smiled.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. She just..." John opened the tin for Harry to see. She grinned and grabbed a gingerbread man.

"Where to? Or we just sitting here with the meter running? I'm fine either way." The driver glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes widened a bit in recognition. "Your friend, tall bloke, a touch mad, not joining you today?"

"Oh god, I apologize now for whatever happened the last time you saw me. Or him. Or for any time in the near future." John laughed and shook his head. "He won't be joining us. The cabbie relaxed marginally. Until John told him their destination. "You sure, mate? That area's not..."

"I'm sure." John interrupted, his tone gone terse. "There's an extra ten and a mince pie for your trouble." The cabbie shrugged and pulled onto the road.

"John." Harry hissed. "What are we doing? W-why are we... You said this was going to be a surprise. Sounds like a horror to me." John just hummed in response as he tucked the tin into the rucksack. 

"Do you trust me, Harry?"

"Not so sure about that at the moment." Harry frowned. "C'mon John. What are we doing?"

Mouth quirked into a small lopsided smile, John crossed his arms over his chest. "Ghost hunt."

"Ghost... hunt." Harry repeated, uncertainty in her voice. "Are you ill? Have you gone mad? A concussion maybe?"

Huffing a laugh, John patted Harry's arm. "It'll be an adventure."

"Oh god."

John's mobile buzzed with a text. He glanced at Harry who was staring out the window, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

_Mycroft nearly had a fit when mummy asked after you. Father got a new hunting rifle. SH_

_Be gentle. And yes I'll teach your father gun safety. Especially after last time. God help us all. JW_

Mouth quirked into a tiny smile John dropped the mobile into his rucksack and watched the streets pass by through the window. They rode in companionable silence for a few moments, until the scenery began to change. Harry inhaled a sharp breath and went rigid. "It's going to be fine, Harry. You'll see."

"Just... Look at it. It's the same... But not." Harry's voice was soft.

"I know what you mean." He pointed out Mr. Shamrock's old bookstore. Now sitting vacant, the big storefront window was cracked and spray painted with vulgarities. Harry made a pained sound and closed her eyes. "In my mind everything's always darker. More ominous." John continued to stare across Harry and out her window at the passing neighborhoods.

Harry laughed bitterly. "Mind? You mean nightmares? 'Cause nightmares are the only time I think about this place. I can't imaging thinking about it in the daylight."

"Awake or nightmares. Some days there's little difference." John clenched his jaw and swallowed. He glanced at Harry whose expression changed quickly from surprised to stricken.

"Ish..."

"Not now, Harry." John shook his head once. "We're almost there." They sat in silence until the car slowed to a stop. 

"You two _sure_ this is where you want out?" The driver turned almost completely around in his seat. 

With an emphatic "No!" Harry shook her head.

"Yes," John snapped. He shoved the fare into the cabbie's hands, and then pulled out a mince pie.

"You want me to wait?" 

Harry started to nod, but John shushed her. "No, we'll be just fine. I appreciate your concern, but it's really unwarranted."

Taking the mince pie, the driver handed John a scrap of paper with a number scribbled on it. "When you're ready, call _me_ okay? I'll pick you up."

"Okay, yeah. Thanks, mate." John nodded brusquely and exited the car. He pulled his rucksack over his shoulder, grabbed Harry by the hand, and dragged her out after him. John waved the driver on, and then turned to take in the site. Harry pulled her arm free from John's grip, but then took one of his hands in both of hers.

"Ish? Ish, what are we doing here? I..." Harry shook her head and looked down at her feet. "I swore I'd never come back here, John." When she looked back up, a tear was running down her cheek. 

"Still with the fake crying? God, no wonder Clara gets so frustrated." John rolled his eyes and smirked. Harry elbowed him a little harder than what could strictly be called playful then laughed.

"Eh, it was worth a shot." She shielded her eyes with her hand and looked the now decrepit, condemned, and supposedly tenant free building up and down. "I really have no desire to be here, John. I never needed to see this place again. Seeing it like this just... It doesn't change anything."

Humming in agreement John marched straight up to the boarded over door and tested a few planks. "This was our home and... They're razing it on Thursday." He attempted to pull a board loose, as discreetly as possible, but to no avail. He looked over his shoulder at Harry, who stood watching him, brows furrowed, confusion etched on her face. "Harry, did you hear me? They're..."

"Yeah, yeah. Thursday." Harry frowned. "Why are we here?"

"It's a surprise?" John offered, grimacing at how very lame his attempt sounded even to himself.

"Ah, no." Harry stuck her hand out. "Give me the cab driver's number. We're calling right now."

Crouched over his pack, John dug through his supplies and pretended not to hear Harry's pleas. Years of living with Sherlock had conditioned him to work past a whining companion. Past experience had also prepared him for Harry storming into his personal space and ducking down so they were face-to-face. Though he didn't flinch, one side of his mouth still twitched. John was careful not to make eye contact.

"John, I know you heard me. Hand it over."

"I would take a step back. But that's just me." 

"Oh my god." Harry's laugh was pure derision. "Your Captain Watson voice might work on that pompous arse flatmate of yours, but if you think you're going to..."

"Car." John shuffled the contents of his bag, and turned to sit on the step. "Walk away."

"What?" Harry turned to peer down the street at the distant vehicle, wondering how John had even noticed it, and hoping against hope that it was a cab. "John, I..."

"Just start walking. Less suspicious that way." John glared up at her, then quickly propped his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. "Go!" He hissed.

With a roll of her eyes, in a fashion well rehearsed by the elder sister of a younger brother prone to getting into scrapes and other _adventurous_ (translation: dangerous) situations, Harry started walking in the direction of the car. It had been a few years (far more than, actually), but they'd run this play before. One person sitting dejectedly in front of a condemned block of flats was scarcely worth noticing. Two, on the other hand, had a way of drawing attention.

They'd learned their lesson when eight year-old John had discovered that old abandoned school house and convinced Harry to go exploring. The first time they'd tried to sneak in, a suspicious passer-by had phoned the police. A few days later they tried again, but kept their distance from one another, and managed to break in unnoticed. Harry couldn't help smiling as she recalled the look of wonder on John's face as he had turned in a slow circle, taking in the dingy, almost alien in appearance, rooms of the dilapidated building.

In order to conceal her face, Harry checked her nonexistent watch just as the interlopers passed her by. She kept walking until she heard the car go around a corner, and turned back just in time to catch John cautiously glancing up and down the street, still sat on the crumbling steps, his rucksack tucked between his feet and hands clasped over his knees. Just as Harry had found him _so many_ times in the past. He had always waited for her to get home; they operated under the notion that there was safety in numbers any time there was a possibility Jonathan might be home.

Harry’s heart ached when John grinned up at her, and she caught a glimpse of the boyish mischief gleaming in his eyes. She touched her fingers fondly to his jaw as she reminisced, and the illusion was shattered by the scruff of day old growth and the pop and crack of cartilage in well abused knees as he stood.

"God, Ish. You got old." 

Huffing a surprised laugh, John shook his head. "Look in the mirror lately?"

"Oi, you!" Harry took a playful swing at her brother. John easily ducked away, grabbed her other arm and pulled her after him as he trotted, grinning all the while, off to the alley that ran alongside the building. "Ladies don't get old, they _mature_!" She couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, be sure to tell me when we're in the presence of a lady." At Harry's insulted gasp, John dropped her arm and took off at a sprint around the corner of the building.

"Rude!" Harry shouted, though her voice was tinged with glee as she chased after him "Don't think you'll get away that easily, you berk!"

"Trollop!" Having turned to face Harry, John walked backwards down the alley, one eyebrow roguishly cocked, daring her to advance.

"Oh, you arse. You'll regret that." Harry lunged after him, but John quickly spun away from her with a mocking laugh. Gritting her teeth, Harry leapt onto John's back, wrapping one arm around his neck, and her legs securely around his middle. "Ha! Bet you didn't think I could still do that, did ya?" Her laughter shrill in its close proximity to John's ear.

"Ooohff. Oh God." John grunted as he staggered and attempted to keep them both upright. "Harry, you wildebeest. What the hell?" 

"Seemed to me you needed reminding which one of us is the older sibling." Harry smirked as she tightened her grip.

"Yes well, superior maturity proven. Brilliantly done." Huffing a strained laugh, John squared his shoulders and straightened his back. "So, Harry..."

"Yes, Ish?"

"Get off, yeah?"

With her free hand Harry pinched John hard in that one spot, on his side, just under his ribs, that was always the most ticklish when they were kids. John yelped in surprise and tried to wrench free from her, nearly toppling them both over. Laughing triumphantly, Harry dropped to her feet and grinned at her brother.

Heaving a few deep breaths, John bent over, braced his hands on his knees and tried to compose himself. He looked up at Harry and huffed breathy laugh. "God, Harry."

"Aww. Baby Ish getting soft in his old age?" Harry cooed mockingly.

"If I'm old, then you must be ancient." With a wink, John stood upright and turned his attention to the rusted, precarious fire escape trailing up the side of the building.

Failing to notice John’s shift in focus, Harry stood next to him, arms crossed over her chest in a pout. "I'm not ancient, I'm a _classic._ "

"Okay... Crypt keeper." Casting a brief sidelong glance at his sister, John bit the inside of his cheek, fighting to maintain control of his face. Harry bit her lip and then giggle-snorted, and they were both lost once more to hysterics.

"All right, let's focus." John wiped the mirthful tears from his eyes and exhaled deeply. He couldn't keep himself from chuckling though, try as he might.

Arms wrapped around her middle, Harry’s giggles devolved into hiccups and coughs as she attempted to calm down. Her sides were aching from the laughter. "What's the plan? And, why?" She eyed the dubious looking fire escape, with its guillotine ladder, and thought nothing deserved such a terrible, deadly sounding name more. "I'm not climbing that thing."

"I thought we'd check the back first. But," John eyed a rusted out skip, then turned his eyes to the fire escape once more and frowned. "This may be the only way in."

"There is another option." Harry placed her hand on John's arm. "We could just... not. There isn't anything in there I need to see, Ish. I got this place out of my system a long time ago."

"No... No, there's something... I need to. I need to get in there, and I want to do this with you. It has to be together." 

There was urgency in John's tone that gave Harry pause. She swallowed hard and dropped her hand to her side. "Fine." With a single determined nod and a sharp flick on John's ear (another action well practiced as an older sibling), Harry stomped down the alley to the back of the building. "Coming?"

John stared after his sister for a moment, a look of surprised fondness on his face. He jogged to catch up with her as she rounded the corner of the building. "Harry... Thanks. Th-thank you..."

Harry bumped her shoulder into John's. "Don't make me regret this." Her tone was gruff, but the smile twitching at the corner of her mouth gave her away. John turned suddenly and wrapped her in a hug.

"You won't. I promise."

"Damn you, Ish. You always knew I was going to cave. You're devious, you know that?"

Humming his acknowledgment, John broke the embrace first and flashed his best lopsided _who? me?_ grin. "C'mon. Looks like someone did most of the work for us."

Clearly an attempt had been made to keep curious intruders out, as evidenced by the chain and padlock, not to mention an obvious excess of boards nailed across the frame. It was also clear that someone with a bit more than curiosity on their side had been interested in getting into the building, as evidenced by the boards being torn away, the chain broken, and the door sitting off its hinges. 

"Guess I won't be needing that lock-picking kit after all." John dropped his rucksack to the ground and crouched to dig through it. He pulled out two torches, and tried to discreetly tuck his gun away under his coat.

"You brought a gun?" Harry hissed through gritted teeth. "Bloody hell, John."

"Just a precaution." John shrugged the rucksack securely onto both shoulders and thrust a torch into Harry's hand. "I'll go first. It'll be fine." Clicking on his torch John motioned for Harry to do the same. He ducked under a board and into the building. With a resigned sigh, Harry followed right after.

"Oh god." Harry gagged at the stench. Mould. Urine (it didn't bear considering whether that was human or not). Chemicals (also not wise to spend too much time thinking about). General filth. In combination, the smell was overwhelming. John had pulled the neck of his jumper up to cover his nose and mouth. Giggling at how ridiculous he looked, Harry pulled her scarf tight around her face. 

"Shut it." John chuckled, as he did a preliminary sweep of their surroundings with his torch. The floor and walls were caked thick with grime. Debris and garbage littered the floor, and where the walls weren't scorched or crumbling, black mould prevailed. Stepping gingerly, John lead the way toward the stairwell at the front of the building. They passed a few flats whose doors either stood open, or were missing entirely; most clearly having been lived in by squatters or used as drug dens, though one had very recently been used to cook something most definitely not legal.

"I don't like this, John," Harry whispered as she stepped over a... well, she didn't want to think about what it was she was stepping over. "I'm definitely going to have to throw these shoes away when we're done. Ta for that." 

Rolling his eyes, John stopped short at the bottom of the stairs and shined his torch up. "I didn't actually see anyone in any of those rooms. And once we're up there, it'll only take a few minutes." Laying a hand on Harry's arm, John turned to look at her. "I promise, I've got good reason for this. We'll be fine."

"Well, get on with it then." Harry nudged John toward the steps. "I'll stay a few behind you. But if the whole thing collapses, don't think for a second I'll be trying to catch you."

"Wouldn't dream of it." John tested the first stair's durability and finally settled on spot to step up onto. It was slow going as he worked his way up, and Harry was careful to place her feet exactly where John's had been.

"Skip this one." John held his hand out to help Harry up.

They made it to the first landing, and half way up to the next floor before they ran into trouble. "Ah, Harry, the next two steps are gone..."

" _Gone?_ As in missing?"

"Big gaping hole. Let me get over it, and I'll help you up." Before Harry had a chance to protest, John heaved himself up over the missing steps, and scrambled up higher when the one he landed on started to give away as well. He laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck as he looked down at Harry. "Ready?"

"You idiot. _No_ I'm not ready, damn you." Harry eyed the bowing step that barely supported John's weight. "What's the plan here, John?"

"Just... give me your hands. You jump, and I'll pull you up. Easy."

Harry snorted in disdain. "Just bloody _brilliant_ you are. That's the worst idea I've ever heard." The stair she was standing on creaked ominously. With an indignant growl, Harry shoved the torch into her pocket and gritted her teeth. "Fine. I don't like it. If we die, it'll be your fault." She held her hands out to John, took a deep breath, and jumped. 

John's solid strength in hauling his sister up and over three steps was not the problem. Nor was Harry's ability to step lightly once she landed. The true issue was in the solidity of the remaining stairs. John realized the trouble before Harry had even properly righted herself. Shoving his sister up the remaining stairs, John barely managed to stumble up after her as another three steps crumbled out from under them.

Panting, Harry sat down hard at the top of the stairway and stared back down at the void where she'd just been standing. "God. Oh my god." She glanced up at John who was smiling down at her with that infuriating lopsided grin. "You arse. You enjoyed that didn't you?"

"We survived, didn't we?" With a shrug, John held his hand out to Harry and helped her up off the floor. 

"I hate you."

"You don't." John bumped her shoulder with his. With a wink he pulled out his torch and turned away from her to give a cursory look up and down the hall. "Seems clear. Come on." They made their way slowly to the flat. _That_ flat. The one they had both sworn to never return to. Most of the doors on this floor were still intact, including this, _their_ door. John hesitated just briefly, took a deep grounding breath, and tested the doorknob. The door squealed as it swung open on rusted hinges into the gutted flat.

Releasing the breath she'd been holding, Harry peeked around John into the flat. "I thought it was cramped when we lived here. But now, even completely gutted, it's so tiny. How did four people live here?"

Scrubbing his hand over his face, John shook his head. "No idea. My god. Just look at it." He took a few steps and was in the center of the main room. Absolutely everything of any value, the old appliances down to the metal fixtures had been stripped away. The same layer of grime covered every surface, the windows were broken out, and the walls seemed to sag under the weight of too much history.

Harry stepped up next to John and slid her hand into his. "Come on. Let's do whatever it is you came here to do and get out of here. I feel ill." With a quick nod, John led Harry down the short hall to their old bedroom. Glancing into the room that had belonged to their parents, John noticed a mattress with blankets and a duffle bag. He opted not to mention it to Harry, and just shouldered the door to their room open.

A pile of rotted boards, the remains of an old bed frame, lay where Harry's bed had once been. With the exception of the heap of boards and the mould, the room stood empty. 

"I wonder if anyone lived here... After..." Harry turned in a circle, taking in every inch of the room, and shuddered.

"The real question is, why would anyone want to?" Leaving the door to the room standing open, John stepped over to where his bed had once been and dropped to his knees. Harry watched with mild curiosity as he began checking for loose floor boards. "Ha! Please still be here." Wiggling a board free, and then a second, John appeared almost giddy.

Peering over John's shoulder, Harry shined her torch into the opening he had created. "What's in there, Ish?"

Grinning a boyish grin up at her, John pulled out a small stack of mum's old vinyl records. The album on top was the one they had been listening to _that_ day. "Oh my god. You saved them." Harry sat on the floor next to John and brushed her hand tenderly over the album covers. "Oh." Her breath caught in her throat as John pulled the next item from his hiding spot. It was a well worn, well familiar old shoe box. Harry half sobbed, half laughed as she reached for the crumbling box. Her childhood keepsakes. She had thought them long lost, as nothing had ever seemed to survive the wrath of Jonathan Watson. But Ish, her precious, perfect baby brother had kept them hidden away for her.

"How..."

"I found the loose boards when I was seven or eight. Hid all sorts of stupid stuff in there. When you left..." John sniffed and refused to look at Harry. "You promised you'd come back. So I hid that where I didn't think _he_ would find it, so that you'd have it when..."

"Ish." Setting the box and the albums aside, Harry pulled John into hug. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. We're not very good at this sibling thing, are we?"

"The worst." John huffed a laugh into Harry's shoulder and pulled her more tightly into the embrace.

"Thank you for this... For keeping my things. For being patient with me... For being the stable one." Harry whispered.

"Oh god." John laughed outright. "If I'm the stable one, we're all in trouble." He pulled back from the hug, brushed Harry's hair back from her face, and wiped away the tears that had run down her cheek. "None of that, now. This is supposed to an adventure, not a sentimental..."

"What do you think you're doing in here?" A gruff voice boomed from the open doorway. "This is _my_ territory."

Jumping to his feet, John turned to face the intruder. Taking a military stance, he stood defensively in front of Harry. He looked the man up and down, taking in his wildly erratic eye movement, the way he was sweating and jittery, scratching too roughly at the bend of his elbow. _Possible withdraw. More likely, bad high. Very dangerous._ He knew reasoning with the man would not amount to much, but he wasn't interest in a physical confrontation. "We don't want any trouble." John held his hands out, palms up. "We use to live here. We're just picking up some of our old things, and we'll be on our way."

"What is that?" The man eyed Harry's box. "This is my place now. You find something here, it's mine. Let me have it." He took a few halting steps into the room.

John took a step back, and Harry stayed very still. "That's not how this is going to work," John assumed his Captain Watson voice. "We're going to take our things and walk out of here without any struggle."

"I don't think so," the other man rasped as he lunged at John. John halted his attacker with a very well timed right hook.

"I do not want to hurt you." Clenching and releasing his fist, John dropped his arm to his side.

With a feral growl, the strung out man lunged again and managed to land a blow that split John's lip. Not taking the time to respond to the shock of the hit, John reciprocated, breaking the man's nose, then closed his strong grip around the man's throat and took a step to back him toward the door. When the man attempted to kick John's legs out from under him, Harry had had enough. In one quick motion she jumped to her feet, pulled the gun from under John's coat, and aimed it at the man's head.

"Enough!" Harry shouted as she did everything she could to hide the fact that she was trembling. "You leave my brother alone."

" _Harry,_ " John hissed. The other man stumbled back when he noticed the gun, and John took the opportunity to shove him out into the hallway. He slammed and locked the door, and used a piece of the broken bed frame to wedge under the door as an extra precaution. He turned back to Harry, who stood frozen in place, wide eyed, still gripping the gun. 

"Oh god. Harry." John rushed to ease the gun from her hands, and noted that the safety was still in place. He tucked it away, and then helped ease Harry down to the floor. "That was _incredibly_ stupid. So stupid, Harry." Taking her face in his hands, John made her look at him. " _Never_ do that again, yeah? Swear to me you'll never do that again."

"H-he was out of his mind. He was going to..."

"I know. But please, Harry, promise me."

Blinking rapidly, Harry released a shuddering breath. She realized that John's hands on her face were shaking and she could see the terror in his eyes. She shook her head slowly. "Never again, Ish."

Exhaling deeply, John wrapped Harry in a protective hug. "Thank you. Thank you," he repeated breathlessly. 

On the other side of the door the crazed man was pounding and screaming away, demanding to be let in. Threatening. Cursing. The door bowed under his onslaught, but held tight.

"How're we going to get out of here?" Harry cast a wary look at the door as the man on the other side suddenly grew quite.

"I guess we're actually using the fire escape after all." John chuckled at Harry's groan of displeasure. He opened his rucksack and shoved the albums in, and then gingerly placed Harry's box in as well. Almost as an after thought, he reached back into the hiding place and pulled out another small tin box and crammed it into the pack. He was closing up the pack when he paused and glanced at the door. 

"Do you smell that? What is that?"

Harry scrunched her face. "You mean besides the stench of this place? Oh... Is that alcohol? What is he..."

"Damn. Out the window. Now. He's going to try to smoke us out." Even as John pulled Harry to her feet they could hear the roar and crackle of the alcohol being ignited on the other side of the door. John swore as he struggled to get the window open. It was sealed tight. Painted closed. Lovely. And of course this would be the one window in the entire flat without the glass panes already broken out. He pulled his gun out, and using the grip as a hammer, he shattered out the glass, and cleared away the shards.

"You first." John grabbed Harry's hand and tugged her to the window. The room was rapidly filling with smoke as the first fingers of the flames worked their way under the door.

With a grim look on her face, Harry squeezed John's shoulder and then climbed out the window, careful to avoid the sharp edges. It wasn't a direct drop to the fire escape landing, but Harry was able to lower herself down onto the railing and carefully ease herself down to the flat surface. "Seems sturdy, John. Come on," she called up to him. He nodded and lowered the rucksack down to where Harry could easily grab it. He quickly lowered himself down to the railing and jumped down beside Harry.

"Just have to release the ladder now." Kneeling by the ladder, John mumbled a string of curses as he fumbled with the rusted release mechanism. 

"John..." Harry looked nervously up at the thick smoke now billowing from the window above them.

"I know Harry. It's rusted over." John leaned into the ladder with his right shoulder, hoping to leverage it up enough to work the mechanism loose. He was on the verge of just shooting the damned thing off when, with one solid push, the mechanism released and the ladder dropped its full weight down on his shoulder. Crying out in pain, John cursed and braced himself to try to lift up on the ladder enough to slide out from under it. Harry was there in an instant, pulling up on the ladder with all of her might. When John pulled himself free, Harry let go and jumped back, and the ladder dropped down with a crash.

"Ish? Ish are you okay? It's not dislocated is it? Oh god."

"Harry, it's fine. I'm fine. Definitely not dislocated." John looked up at the window. "We have to go. You first."

"No. No, you go first, John. Please."

"I'll be too slow. You go first. Can you take the pack?" Handing Harry the rucksack, John nudged her toward the ladder. "Please, Harry. Just go." Harry shook her head to protest. "Look, this way, if my shoulder gives out and I fall, you can catch me, yeah?"

"Idiot. Don't even joke about that. If you fall, you'll deserve what you get." Securing the rucksack over her shoulders, Harry carefully climbed down. John waited until she was safely on the ground to begin his descent. It was slow going at first as he figured out the mechanics of climbing down a ladder with just one arm. Three rungs from the bottom, it was easier just to jump the rest of the way down. John grunted when the force of landing jarred his shoulder.

"Bloody hell."

"So... still worth it?" Harry attempted to joke, despite being unable to mask the way her voice wavered. She wrapped her arm around John's back quickly guided him out of the alley.

"I told you. An adventure." John's smile didn't make it to his eyes. He winced in pain as he glanced up and down the street. "Harry, call and report the fire. Tell them you were just passing by and saw smoke. I'll call our friend the cabbie."

"Okay, John. But I really think you ought to wait and let a medic look at your shoulder. Or at least let me take you to the hospital."

"Harry, I'll be fine. Really, at the very worst it's a sprain, and there's nothing they'll be able to do but try to drug me. I've got plenty of pain meds back at the flat. I'd rather no one know we were here. Word tends to... _travel_ when you're associated with Sherlock Holmes."

Rolling her eyes as she dialed the number for emergency services, Harry whispered, "Terrible patient. You're the _worst._ "

John chuckled and rang the cabbie. He explained that they'd meet him on the corner a block away, and gave him the street names. The driver assured him he'd be there momentarily. Harry was still on the line reporting the fire when John took her hand and led her down the street.

"They're on their way." With a shrug Harry shoved her mobile back into her pocket. "I have to admit, part of me just wants to let the place burn. What would it matter? They're razing it anyway." They both turned back to see the black smoke now billowing quite heavily from the building.

"Ah, you might get your wish. If they don't hurry, the whole neighborhood could go up."

True to his word, the cab pulled up just as sirens sounded in the distance. Huffing a sigh of relief, Harry helped maneuver John into that car and then climbed in after. The cabbie turned fully in his seat, noted John's busted, bleeding lip and the way he cradled his arm, and the fact that the color drained from Harry's face as she watched fire trucks converge on the neighborhood, and shook his head. "I have to wonder if it's that flatmate of yours who is really the mad one." 

John and Harry looked at each other and broke into giggles. "That is the absolute truth." Harry punched John's uninjured arm.

"Ta." John huffed with a grin. "Let's get out of here."

"Back to Baker Street, mate?" 

"You want to be dropped off first, Harry? Don't you have dinner with Clara's family?"

"Not until later. Besides, I'm not leaving you alone until you're back at your flat. Who knows what you'll get up to." 

"Baker Street then." John shrugged and grimaced in pain.

Much of the ride back to Baker Street was spent in silence, as John tried not to focus on the pain in his shoulder and Harry tried not worry. And neither one was quite ready to process the close call they'd had. Harry rested her head on John's shoulder. He found her warmth and closeness so comforting that John's eyes had just drifted shut when the cab pulled up in front of 221.

"Home, mate." The cabbie smiled back at them.

"You're the best." John made sure to tip the man liberally, and made an offering of more of Mrs. Hudson's baked goods.

"Look, keep my number, yeah? If I'm on shift, I'll go anywhere you need." The cabbie shook John's hand.

"Are you a glutton for punishment?" Harry laughed as she climbed from the car.

The cabbie just laughed. "I've been told I'm a bit mad myself. We have to stick together."

John expressed his thanks again, and they watched as the car pulled away.

"Well, let's get you upstairs and settled." Shifting into mothering-big-sister mode, Harry steered John to the door, and took the keys from his hand. Mrs. Hudson met them in the hall.

"Oh! John, what have you gone and done this time?" With a soft touch, Mrs. Hudson turned John's face so she could inspect his busted lip and tsk'd. "I thought I told you to be careful. And your arm. Whatever am I going to do with you?" She scolded with a wink and smile.

"It's nothing a hot shower and an ice pack won't cure, Mrs. Hudson. You don't have to fret."

Mrs. Hudson tsk'd again. "Well, I'm sure I don't know who _would_ fret over you boys if I didn't." She patted John's cheek affectionately. "Now you march yourself right upstairs and see to that lip. I'll be up shortly with some tea."

"Yes ma'am." John ducked his head, but grinned mischievously. 

Harry giggled when Mrs. Hudson swatted him with a tea towel. "C'mon, Ish. Before poor Mrs. Hudson drags you up the stairs herself."

"She would, too." John chuckled and dodged another swat from the tea towel. He groaned with the movement, and the two women frowned at him. "Okay, yeah. Going upstairs now."

Once inside the flat, John dropped into his armchair with a sigh. Harry sat across from him in Sherlock's chair and placed the rucksack at her feet.

"Well, not the _worst_ Christmas I've ever had." John chuckled as he leaned down to take off his shoes. He pulled the rucksack to him.

Harry hummed in agreement. "Is that what it's like? With Sherlock, I mean. Instead of just being Christmas, was today just an ordinary Tuesday for you?"

John laughed outright. "After a manner, yeah. Not _every_ day. But, a good number of them."

"No wonder he keeps you around. You were brilliant. I'm just sorry it took me this long to see it." With a sniff Harry attempted a weak smile.

"Harry..."

"No, I'm serious, John. You were bloody fantastic today. Absolutely mad, yes. But I am amazed at what I saw. I've missed so much. Sherlock is lucky to have you. _I'm_ lucky..."

"Hey." John reached across and took Harry's hand. "We've made mistakes. Suffered loss. But here we are. Today we're together, and that's perfect. It's enough for me." He grinned at her. "And you're not so bad yourself you know. I still can't believe you pulled my gun on that guy. _Idiot._ "

"Arse." Harry retorted as she wiped at the tears that were trying to form. "You're sure you're okay?"

"I'll be fine. I'm just going to go shower. You don't have to stick around. But, before you go..." Digging in the rucksack, John pulled out the little tin box and then Harry's shoe box. He handed Harry her keepsakes, and then turned his attention to the tin. He popped open the lid and shuffled through the contents. A second place science fair ribbon. A spelling bee medal. The watch mum gave him for Christmas all those years ago. And then... Harry gasped and nearly dropped her own box.

" _This_ is why I had to go back. I had to return this to you." John looked almost sheepish. "I took really good care of it, and it didn't seem right for it to get buried in the demolition." As if it were sacred, John placed the little toy military helicopter gingerly into Harry's hand. "You taught me to be generous, Harry. And brave. I'm a doctor because you believed in me enough as a kid to buy me that ragged old text book. And even though the RAMC was a way to pay for school, you were always so proud that your real father was a soldier, a part of me wanted you to be proud of me that way too. I am who I am today because of you, Harry."

"You..." Harry shook her head and let the tears flow freely. She stood and pulled John up into a tight embrace and mumbled into his shoulder, "I am, Ish. I am _so_ proud of you." She kissed him on the cheek before she pulled away. "We've spent too much time apart. Let's not do that anymore."

"Agreed." John pulled Harry into another hug.

"John dear, I have your tea... Oh, Harry, will you be staying for tea as well?" Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room and placed the tea tray on the table beside John's chair.

"No, I was just going. Dinner with the in-laws. You know." Harry shrugged and Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly. Placing the tiny helicopter in the box of her keepsakes, Harry turned back to John. "Maybe call Matt tomorrow? At least let him _look_ at your shoulder?"

"I'll think about it."

"Mrs. Hudson, you have my permission to scold away if he doesn't take care of himself." Harry gave Mrs. Hudson a quick hug.

"Will do, dear." Mrs. Hudson handed John his tea. "Now drink all of that, young man. And I thought you were going to take care of that lip."

" _Help me._ " John stage whispered to Harry who in turn just laughed, waved goodbye, and disappeared down the stairs.

"This tea is... _different._ Is it new?" John took a long sip, trying to discern the flavors.

"Oh my, don't you like it?" Mrs. Hudson looked positively wounded as she settled an ice pack on John's shoulder.

"No, no. It's _fine,_ just different. I can't quite place the flavors." John stared into the cup and then shook his head. "It's not bad at all, really. Just unusual." He finished off the cup.

"Will you have some more?" 

"In a bit. I think I'm going to shower first. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll clean up the tea service later, yeah?" He kissed her on the cheek as he stood to go shower.

"Of course, dear. But don't expect this every time, you know..." 

"I know, Mrs. Hudson." John chuckled.

Undressing for his shower was a production with his injured shoulder, and after he turned the taps on to let the water heat, John dug in the cabinet for the bottle of pain medication. He could take two, but really hated how they made him feel. He opted to take one and see how he felt after his shower. The hot water worked wonders, and by the time the water ran cold John thought he had never felt more relaxed.

And a bit... fuzzy. Just around the edges. He didn't remember the pain pills having quite that effect on him. It could just be exhaustion. He inspected the cut on his lip in the mirror. It wasn't too bad. It was actually pretty okay. Okaayyy. John giggled and then shook his head. A bit odd. He stepped into his pyjama bottoms and wrapped himself in his robe. If Sherlock could go around like that, then so could he. The big prat. Sherlock. Shurrrlock. Shuuurrrrr... What a hilarious name. He wondered if Sherlock thought his name was hilarious. It seemed important to find out immediately.

_shlerok. hi. JW_

John stepped into the kitchen and looked around. Tea. He needed more tea. Mrs. Hudson. She's the best. But this tea... Bleeeccchh. John choked down a whole cup and poured himself another.

_Injured or drunk? SH_

John giggled. He didn't think he was drunk. He wasn't drunk, right? He did feel funny though. Maybe he was drunk. Shurrrrlllock was the clever one he was. He would know.

_u tell me. JW_

_How very mature of you. SH_

_Based solely on your grammar, I’d say drunk because you’re injured. SH_

That sounded... not wrong. And he said so out loud. Oh... textingggg. Text. texttexttext. 

_gotit in 1. JW_

_Why are you injured, John? SH_

John stared at his mobile, brow furrowed as he considered his words. Too many words. They all just jumbled around...

_looon story. good oen tho. JW_

John finished off his cup of tea. He really was feeling... verrryyyyy... mushhhhhy. No. That wasn't right. He yawned and stretched and his shoulder ached. Oh.

_just a srpain is fine. im fine. JW_

_Should I come home? SH_

He did miss Shurrrrlllllock. It was feeling very sleeeepy in the flat, and it would be less sleepyyyy if Shurrrllllllock came home. He thought he should do something nice for Shurrrrllll... Food. He never ate enough.

God, John was hungry. Starving.

_nahhh. juss gonna fix some dinner. im fine. JW_

_Do NOT cook anything. Elevate your injured whatever. I’ll be home soon. SH_

Pffft. John stumbled into the kitchen and looked around absently. The stove looked... hard. Too many things to deal with. Toast. Toast was easy. He would cook toast. Tooooassssst. 

_John. SH_

Shurrrllllock worried tooooo much. Toast was so eeeasyyyy. John poured the last bit of tea into his cup while he waited. Uuuuggh. What was that. It reminded him of the locker room back in uni... Oohhhhhh. Damn. John giggled hysterically. Missusssss Hudssson. Sneeeakyyyy Hudders. Shurrrllllock was gonna be sooooo angry.

_JOHN. Do you understand me? Under no circumstances are you to cook. SH_

_fine. bosssy. :-( JW_

John sniffed. Wha... what was... Ohhh. Toast. The toast had burnt and small plume of smoke rose from the charred mess. Oh godddd. He was gonna burn down the flat. John dumped the toast in the sink, stumbled back to the sitting room and flopped down on the sofa. Some tiny part of his brain was telling him to lie down and wait for Sherlock to return. The rest of his brain, the part that wasn't nearly so logical at the moment thought that was probably a pretty good idea.

_Mycroft sends his regards. SH_

Bloody Myyycrofffft. What a stupid name.

_mycfroot cn bugger rt off. JW_

John shoved a pillow under his sore shoulder and closed his eyes tight. The room seemed to spin just a bit. He'd just lay here until... it... 

When Sherlock returned, a wrapped plate of mummy's Christmas lunch sent just for John, he was met by an anxious Mrs. Hudson. 

"Sherlock." She was wringing her hands and fidgeting. 

"Where's John? Is he all right?" 

"He's upstairs, dear. He's fine. He just..." Mrs. Hudson hand fluttered near her neck. "Oh, I didn't think he'd drink the whole pot." 

"Whole pot of _what,_ exactly?" 

"Well, it's just... Some days the herbal soothers aren't quite enough. Mrs. Turner told me about this tea, and I just thought..." 

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock charged up the steps two at a time and burst into the flat. Glancing over the room frantically, Sherlock's eyes landed on John's sleeping form, curled in a tight ball on the sofa. Thrusting the plate into Mrs. Hudson's hands, Sherlock sat on the coffee table and checked John's pulse. _A little slower than his normal at rest, but nothing too alarming. Respiration is steady._ He noted the pillow under John's shoulder, and pulled his robe back just a bit. Sherlock frowned at the angry bruising he saw there. 

"Mrs. Hudson, would you please retrieve a bag of frozen peas from the freezer?" Sherlock adjusted John's robe, and then shifted him into a more comfortable position. He inspected John's split lip at length, until Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and handed him the towel wrapped bag of peas. Sherlock placed the peas carefully on John's shoulder, and then covered him with the throw from the back of the sofa. 

"He's not going to be very happy tomorrow." Sherlock chuckled. "Mrs. Hudson, what were you thinking?" 

"I know he doesn't like to take the pain pills, but he _was_ in pain. And he always seems to have nightmares when he's injured. He was only suppose to drink a cup. Or two. I thought he'd figured me out at first. But then he didn't, so I didn't say anything. I just wanted to help him relax. Just a _little._ " The landlady rambled on. 

"Mrs. Hudson, it's okay." Sherlock stood and patted her arm. "He'll be fine. Perhaps a bit cross, but he'll get over it. Believe me when I say I've done worse. At least you had the best of intentions. I'm sure it's nothing a batch of scones won't fix." 

Heaving a sigh of relief, Mrs. Hudson gathered up the offending tea service. "Would you like me to bring you some tea, Sherlock?" 

Chuckling, Sherlock held up his hands. "Thanks, but I'll pass. Addict, you know." 

"Oh, you. I would never..." She glanced over at John and sighed. "Well. Happy Christmas, Sherlock." 

"And to you Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock planted a kiss on her cheek and then turned to pick up his violin. He watched John sleep and began playing softly. "Happy Christmas John." 


	31. Early Christmas Morning, 2019: Sherlock & John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson requests an audience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ridiculous. It's gratuitous fluff, and the love our boys have for their landlady. It's pure sentiment.
> 
> And it is 100% my head canon, for the show, for fandom, for everything. This is absolutely what would go down if the boys thought Mrs. Hudson were in danger.

The mobile on the side table pinged, announcing a new text. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and rolling over to check the time, _05:07 AM,_ John groaned. "For godsake, Sherlock..."

_violet_

The breath caught in John's throat and he was up and out of bed in an instant. Dropping the mobile back on the table, John unlocked the Sig from the drawer safe with practiced ease. He checked the clip and safety as he moved toward the door. It never took him long to adjust to moving about in the dark; he thanked the army for that. Reaching behind his door, he grabbed the length of rope he had coiled there and draped it over his shoulder so it hung down across his chest. 

Moving as quickly and as silently as he ever had in the military, he made his way down the stairs. Sherlock was waiting for him on the landing; John's med kit clutched to his chest and the small fire extinguisher from the kitchen in his other hand. Sherlock's eyes glinted fierce in the fairy lights Mrs. Hudson had strung up in the hallway. John wished, at the moment, that they'd had the cover of darkness, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He put one finger to his lips and then pointed down the stairs. Sherlock nodded and fell directly in step behind him.

It had taken practice -- _hours_ of practice actually -- demanded by Sherlock, to perfect their silent, tandem descent down the steps from their flat. Precise foot placement to avoid loose boards. How much weight each step could take without groaning. Avoiding step number thirteen at all costs. By the time all was said and done, Sherlock was only marginally satisfied with their progress, and John was left contemplating murder. 

_God,_ he was going to hate admitting that Sherlock had been right.

Safely at the bottom of the steps -- without so much as a squeak, _thank you very much_ \-- John held his hand up in a fist. Both men paused and listened intently. They could hear muffled Christmas carols, and there was definitely someone moving around in Mrs. Hudson's flat. A faint light barely shone from the crack under the door. Sherlock tapped John's shoulder, pointed to Mrs. Hudson's door and then to John's gun. John nodded and slowly approached the door. 

Pressed up against the wall on the side nearest the doorknob, John checked the clip once more and clicked off the safety. He nodded as Sherlock, who was pressed up against the wall on the other side of the door, med kit at his feet, ready to wield the extinguisher as a weapon, reached out and tested the doorknob. Unlocked. How many times had they discussed this matter with their landlady? She was entirely too trusting, and their chosen profession was entirely too dangerous to allow such an obvious slip in security. 

John held up three fingers and Sherlock tightened his grip on the doorknob. With a sharp nod, John counted down from three and Sherlock pushed the door open. He quickly picked up the med kit, and John, ready to shoot on sight, did a preliminary sweep of the front room. Lit only with fairy lights and the Christmas tree, the room was warm and cheerful, but John carefully scrutinized every shadow. He looked back at Sherlock, waiting just outside the door, and mouthed, "clear." Sherlock nodded and stepped up right beside him.

Narrowing his eyes and giving the room another once over, Sherlock tapped his ear and pointed to the kitchen. John nodded in agreement, he'd heard it too. Someone was definitely moving around in there. Tilting his head in that direction, John made his way toward the kitchen doorway, careful to stay out of direct line of sight. Sherlock once again fell into step behind him. Creeping through the doorway gun first, John scanned the entire room and came to a complete, abrupt stop. Sherlock, absorbed with observing his surroundings ran right into John's back, and managed to only huff a silent breath as he scowled down at John. Flipping the safety back on, but keeping the gun at the ready, John glared back at Sherlock. He pointed at his eyes, gestured around the room, and then shrugged. Eyes wide with frustration, mouth pressed into a tight line, Sherlock was pantomiming wildly with the fire extinguisher.

It was in the middle of this silent argument, just as John, gun still raised in his right hand, making a vulgar hand gesture at Sherlock with his left, and Sherlock mouthing muted insults, med kit still clutched to his chest, that Mrs. Hudson, the only other occupant of the room, turned from the sink where she'd been scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain from her best baking sheet and humming along with Bing Crosby, and saw her two red faced tenants. So startled was she that she screamed a rather blood curdling scream and dropped the baking sheet with an almighty crash. 

"Oh! Boys!" Voice tremulous, Mrs. Hudson's hands fluttered first to her face and then to her neck.

"Bloody buggering hell," John gasped as he instinctively stepped into a more defensive posture, gripping his gun with both hands. He panted a litany of curses at himself for startling so easily and embarrassment tinged his face.

Sherlock simply took the ruckus as a signal that he could now add volume to his insults, and continued his word assault out loud without missing a beat. "... _fathomleth_ asininity!"

"Did... Did you just _lisp_?" John cast a glance back over his shoulder and blinked in surprise. His rigid stance faltered as he bit his lip and tried not to chuckle.

"Yes, well, I am fairly certain that you just now made up at least three of those vulgarities." Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked.

"Oh, god. We're idiots." John chuckled in earnest. He brought the gun down to his side and scrubbed his hand over his face. "Mrs. Hudson, we really need to talk about..." Both men turned their attention to their landlady. She stood completely still, with the exception of the trembling hands at her neck and her eyes darting between the two of them, the color drained from her face after the fright she'd received. 

"Damn. Sorry... sorry." Rushing around the table, John removed the clip from the Sig in a smooth motion, placed the gun and clip separately on the table, and pulled a chair out. Propriety forgotten, he gently ushered Mrs. Hudson into the chair and crouched in front of her. Pressing two fingers to the pulse point on her wrist, John cupped her cheek with his other hand. "Martha? Hey... hey..." Adopting his most soothing tone, John attempted to comfort the stunned woman. "Mrs. Hudson? Martha, are you okay? Your pulse is a bit high. I need you to try to calm down, yeah? Take a few deep breaths. Sherlock, can you get her a glass of..." John was cut short by a smack across his face. There wasn't enough force for it to leave a mark, but it stunned him enough that he sat down hard on the floor, ego bruised, rubbing his cheek.

"John Watson, don't you sneak into my home, using that awful language and waving around that gun, and expect to tell me what to do!" Having recovered herself, Mrs. Hudson stood with a huff, crossed her arms over her chest, and shook her head at John with a look that exuded motherly disappointment.

"I... But..." 

"Mrs. Hudson!" Exasperated, Sherlock, who had put the fire extinguisher down on the table, but still held tight to the med kit, as if it were a security blanket, took a step toward John. "John was, we both were, simply responding..."

"And you!" Mrs. Hudson turned her attention to Sherlock, and pointed at him, accusation visible in the tight line of her lips. "You're just as bad, with your insults and waving around whatever you can get your hands on like a weapon. It's enough to give a person a heart attack!" She looked from Sherlock, standing sheepishly a few paces away (out of arm's reach on purpose), to John, still sat on the floor, a repentant grimace on his face. "And just look at the state of you two. Bursting in here dressed the way you are. It's not decent!"

Giving each other a once over, both Sherlock and John devolved into giggles. "I'm sure none of this is in the least bit humorous." Mrs. Hudson huffed and wrinkled her nose in distaste. She scooped up the baking sheet off the floor and turned back to the sink to rewash it. Her tenants continued to giggle.

"You do look the very definition of ridiculous, John." Sherlock held out his hand and helped his flatmate up off the floor. "Like some sort of suburban action hero." He shook his head and huffed a laugh as he looked John up and down. Shrugging, John quirked a lopsided grin but crossed his arms over his chest in feigned modesty. Barefoot and shirtless, he was wearing worn and faded red and green plaid flannel pyjama bottoms and the length of rope still hung across his chest. The sleep mussed hair and two day old stubble completed the look.

"Yes, well, you're one to talk." John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, who pulled his robe a little more tightly around himself and secured the belt more snugly. He didn't have to ask whether Sherlock was wearing any pants under there. Everyone already knew the answer to that. An uncharacteristic flush colored Sherlock's cheeks as he pushed an unruly mass of curls from his forehead and shuffled his feet.

"Oh my god, your socks. They have reindeer on them!" John laughed outright.

"It _is_ Christmas, is it not?" Sherlock huffed in exasperation, and then he snapped, "Take off that rope, John. Honestly..." Realization striking, he suddenly turned his focus to Mrs. Hudson, who was dutifully setting out a tea service, and narrowed his eyes. "You. It's your fault we're here in the first place. I'm sure John would much rather be asleep, and I was in the middle of an experiment."

Blinking up at him innocently, Mrs. Hudson continued about the task of setting three places at the table. "What are you on about?" She looked at John and motioned to his gun. John tugged his med kit from Sherlock's hand, carefully placed his gun and the clip inside, and placed the whole thing, along with the fire extinguisher, on the floor next to the doorway. John took over setting the table, his brow furrowed in confusion, as Mrs. Hudson turned to get the kettle started.

"What _are_ you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

"Apparently I'm... setting the table?" With a resigned shrug and a yawn, John continued placing cutlery at each place setting.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, then turned to Mrs. Hudson. "You sent a text alerting us to a critical situation. John and I followed established protocols we had all agreed upon mutually. We entered your flat prepared for any eventuality, but I see no evidence of an intruder. And you at least _appear_ to be in good health..."

"Dear, I'm sure I did nothing of the sort." Without sparing a glance in Sherlock's direction, Mrs. Hudson, with the aid of a Christmas-y oven mitt that matched her Christmas-y apron, pulled out a plate of sausages that she had been keeping warm in the oven. She then pulled out a dish of scrambled eggs. "John, would you get the clotted cream and the jam from refrigerator please?" 

"Look. Here." Sherlock held his mobile up to Mrs. Hudson's face so that she would have no choice but to see the text there.

"'Violet?'" She reached around Sherlock to hand John a tea towel covered basket of freshly baked scones.

"'Violet.'" Her tenants repeated in unison. 

Peeking under the tea towel, John sighed contentedly. "That's the code you're to use if there's an intruder. You won't convince us you forgot. I know you passed that written exam Sherlock gave you. And the color coded key I made is right there on the refrigerator door." He indicated behind him with his thumb.

"I must have been confused. You know how silly I can be when it comes to technology. What is it... autocorrect? My mobile must have changed my message." Mrs. Hudson turned quickly away when the kettle whistled, and made a fuss over brewing a pot of tea. "I was trying to use the code to tell you I was fixing breakfast."

"There is no code for _fresh scones,_ " Sherlock condescended as he attempted to steal a sausage. John swatted his hand away. With a huff, Sherlock slumped into one of the chairs with a place setting in front of it. "We created the codes _for a reason,_ John. So that we could respond properly. You were prepared to _kill_ someone. And now we're about to sit down to breakfast with our landlady, the two of us in varying degrees of undress, at barely half five in the morning on Christmas." He scooted his chair a little closer to the table and managed to swipe a sausage before John could stop him. "Do you see the state of chaos into which we have descended? All because..."

"Sherlock." John chuckled. " _Let it go._ " He took the tea pot from Mrs. Hudson and poured each of them a cup. "We've been played. I've learned the hard way Mrs. Hudson is a devious one, too much time with you I suspect, and I fell for it again. I guess I'm just not physically able to suspect the worst of her." He winked at his landlady; Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes in response. Setting the pot aside, John pulled Mrs. Hudson's chair out for her.

"Thank you dear." Mrs. Hudson turned to face John and patted the cheek she'd smacked. "I am sorry for smacking you, you boys just gave me quite a fright. And we've talked about that mouth of yours, love." She smiled fondly and passed John the plate of mysteriously dwindling sausages. 

"If you two are quite finished with the domestic niceties, I'd really like to know _why_ we are here so that I can get back to my experiment." Sherlock reached across the table and tried to steal the half of John's scone with the jam on it. John's fork put a stop to him, and he was handed his own scone.

"Mrs. Hudson fixed us Christmas breakfast. It's not too much to expect that we enjoy it _with_ her for once, is it?" John scooted the pot of jam nearer to Sherlock.

"Not at all. If that were the _actual_ reason for us being summoned here. But it's not, is it?" Turning his full attention to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock scrutinized her every action as she sipped at her cup of tea. He leaned in close to her. "What are you hiding? You weren't in danger. You aren't injured. You don't _appear_ ill, though considering your advanced age, you could logically have contracted some terminal illness."

"Oi! Sherlock, don't be rude."

"I'll beg your pardon, young man!" 

"That's it, isn't it?" Sherlock's eyes were wide with concern and he grabbed Mrs. Hudson's hand. "You're dying." He turned on John, his tone venomous. "How could you let this happen? I thought you were a doctor? Why didn't you see..."

"Sherlock!" John laughed. "She's not dying. You're not dying, are you Mrs. Hudson?"

"No dear, not today anyway." Mrs. Hudson chuckled and patted Sherlock's hand. He huffed and slumped in his chair once more.

"You always remind me to look at _all_ the evidence first. _Never_ assume." Taking a sip of tea, John leaned back in his chair looking rather smug. "You, Sherlock Holmes, _assumed_ the worst. And you were _wrong._ " He didn't even attempt to cover his gleeful grin.

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson giggled, "don't be so hard on him. He's just concerned is all. You don't care for surprises, do you dear." She patted Sherlock's hand again, and pulled an envelope from her apron pocket. "I'll not make you wait any longer."

Pushing her plate away, Mrs. Hudson placed the envelope on the table in front of her and folded her hands on top of it. Sherlock's fingers fidgeted around the edge of his place mat. After another sip of tea, Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and began.

"As you both know, several years ago Sherlock helped me out of a very bad situation with my late husband. What you may not know is that before the cartel, and the crime, I had actually received a rather large inheritance from an aunt. But all of that was tied up in the legal system with my husband's troubles. Until just a few years ago. I didn't mention it then, because things got so..." She furrowed her brow and considered her words carefully. "Things were so _difficult_ for you boys for so long. But when my accounts were released, I paid this house off right away. It's why I never really made a fuss about rent back then. But the rent you did pay, I kept back in a separate account."

Both Sherlock and John leaned back in their chairs and stared at their landlady, stunned into silence. She chuckled and continued. "My sister and I have gone in together and bought a little summer cottage. She and I want to travel and go on holiday while we both still can. And I... Well..." Mrs. Hudson ducked her head and blushed. "I don't really have to worry about money at all. And I don't want you two boys to ever wonder about whether or not you'll have a home here. Because I believe there is some universal law that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong at 221 Baker Street. So..." Ever so gingerly, Mrs. Hudson opened the envelope and removed the enclosed documents. "I had your brother help me with these, Sherlock. Such a gentleman. I don't see why you two can't get along." 

John snorted and unsuccessfully tried to cover it with a cough. Sherlock growled and covered his face with his hands.

"This," Mrs. Hudson held up one packet of papers, "is the deed to the house, made out in both of your names." She handed the bundle to Sherlock, who looked absolutely gobsmacked. "The house is yours, boys. And these are the papers granting you access to the bank account I mentioned. It's set up for maintenance and upkeep of the house. You both have access, but you're listed primary John, since you're probably going to have to be the one to make sure _himself_ doesn't burn the place down." She handed the bank papers to John, who was furiously attempting to blink back tears.

"You won't..." John had to take a deep breath and clear his throat before he could speak. "You aren't leaving us though? You'll still live here?"

"Oh, dear, no, of course I'm not leaving. I'll keep my rooms here at Baker Street for as long as you'll have me."

With a relieved sigh John stood and wrapped Mrs. Hudson in a crushing hug. "How can we ever thank you?"

"My dear boy, you don't have to thank me. I should be thanking you." She broke the hug and took both of John's hands. "I never did have any children of my own. Having you and Sherlock here, well, it's been like having my own sons. I couldn't have picked two better if I'd tried. And we've all been through so much together, it's... Well, we are a family aren't we? I like to think maybe you've come to love me the way I've come to love the two of you."

Silent tears slid down John's cheeks as he nodded huffed a breathy laugh. He helped Mrs. Hudson stand so he could wrap her in another tight embrace. "After my own mum..." He released a shuddering breath. "You're the only..." Mrs. Hudson sobbed and they held onto each other for long moments. "Damn. Sorry. Sorry. I'm just rubbish at this. Yes, of course I love you." John planted a tender kiss on her cheek as they broke the hug. "Thank you." He laughed again. "The scarf and tea set we got you hardly seems appropriate now, right Sherlock?"

"I'm sure they're lovely dear." Mrs. Hudson grinned and patted his arm. They both turned to look at Sherlock, who still looked utterly astonished, was sat stone still and unblinking, with the deed to 221 Baker Street held tightly in his grip. 

"Oh god. I think you broke him." John stepped around the table, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and shook him. "Sherlock? You all right?"

Slowly Sherlock blinked and looked from John to Mrs. Hudson and then back to John. He still held tight to the deed. "This..." He held the papers up without looking at them. "This is our home? _Our_ home." 

John patted him on the shoulder. "Yeah. _Our_ home." He smiled reassuringly down at him and then looked to Mrs. Hudson. "Why don't I do the washing up, and I'll let you... handle this." With a chuckle, John managed to get Sherlock into the front room and situated onto one of the sofas. "I'll make some fresh tea as well."

"Sherlock, are you quite all right, dear?" Mrs. Hudson sat down next to him on the sofa and brushed some hair back from his face. "I didn't mean for the gift to upset you. I thought you'd be happy. I thought you loved living here..."

"I do!" Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson and rushed his explanation. "I never _really_ felt that I belonged anywhere. Not after Mycroft and I... My family loved me very much, but _I_ stayed away from them. And there were people who helped me some along the way. But it wasn't until here, at Baker Street, with you, and with John, that I actually ever felt I had a place that I belonged. We've been through so many terribly hard things." Sherlock sniffed, glanced toward the kitchen where he could hear John stacking the plates, and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. "But there has been so much more joy. And love. And I belong here. _I_ belong here." He glanced down at the deed. "And it's forever." He smiled a tiny genuine smile at Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson began, but she found herself wrapped in a solid embrace with Sherlock's head resting on her shoulder. "Oh, love. You've always belonged here." 

When John entered with the tea tray only ten minutes later, Sherlock had fallen asleep leaning on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, and she was smiling at him fondly, running gentle fingers through his hair. 

"Should I try to get him upstairs?" John whispered.

"Don't you dare move him. We'll be fine here for a little while."

John smiled and poured Mrs. Hudson a cup of tea and placed it in her free hand. He gingerly reset the needle on her record player and turned the Christmas carols on low. Selecting the quilt from the back of the sofa, John covered Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, placing a kiss on his landlady's cheek. He wrapped the throw from the back of the armchair around his bare shoulders and took up his own tea cup. "Mind if I join you?" 

Smiling up at him, Mrs. Hudson patted the seat next to her. "Right where you belong. Happy Christmas, John."

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end. Don't forget, we still have the matter of John finding out it was Sherlock who punched him in the face all those years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> [AULD LANG SYNE](https://youtu.be/Uv-H_LjV7Sg)  
>  as performed by Barenaked Ladies
> 
> Should auld acquaintance be forgot  
> And never brought to mind?  
> Should auld acquaintance be forgot  
> And days of Auld Lang Syne.
> 
> For Auld Lang Syne, my dear,  
> For Auld Lang Syne,  
> We'll take a cup of kindness yet  
> For Auld Lang Syne.
> 
>  **And here's a hand, my trusty friend**  
>  **And gives a hand of thine**  
>  **We'll take a cup of kindness yet**  
>  For Auld Lang Syne.
> 
> For Auld Lang Syne, my dear,  
> For Auld Lang Syne,  
> We'll take a cup of kindness yet  
> For Auld Lang Syne.


End file.
